The bird hounds inside, wanting me, invite me to sit for tea. I ask if it’s chamomile or black.

“I’m cutting down on my caffeine,” I say.

They don’t care and have returned to their poker game.

“Okay,” I say.

I don’t care, either, and sit with them.

The one to my right, a Newfoundland with a cockatoo’s head, stinks badly of wet fur. Usually, I don’t mind that smell on dogs, but with this one, I only smell the bird shit. That’s all the bird dog bath did for him. No more pleasant smells of running through sprinklers, barefoot with Bandit the collie—just the white mess. I never knew it could smell so wretched.

“You should clean it off,” I murmur to the smelly fellow under my breath, leaning into him, trying to be discreet. He pecks at me and I snap back in my chair.

“No peeking at his cards! What do you think you’re doing?” comes from the bulldog with an eagle’s head.

“I wasn’t. I wasn’t. I was—”

The cocka-Newfy jumps up, bellowing.

“I can’t take any more of this!”

He throws his cards on the table, face-up.

“If anybody wants to play a real game by real rules, be my guest. Follow me into the kitchen. You’ve got 90 seconds before I’m gone.”

He’s out of sight and the kitchen door swings back and forth. The others follow him and I pour myself a cup, glad for the silence.