Gregory Greenleaf

I am walking my new golden retriever puppy, Teddy, on Cundy's Harbor Road. It is Teddy's first walk, and as he bounds along, I struggle not to get bound up by his leash.

My name is Fred and I am a vacuum robot. I am connected to the internet and can send text messages to Gregory's phone if something goes wrong when I am cleaning Gregory's house.

On the morning of my 54th birthday, I found a dead mouse underneath my birdfeeder. Besides being dead, the mouse looked fine. Who or what caused its death? Our cats stay indoors. There were no signs of meteor impact where I found the body.

I am at the checkout counter at Twice Told Tales used bookshop in Brunswick. In my hand is the second volume of Edmund Morris' three-volume set about the life of Theodore Roosevelt. The volunteer cashier, an older woman, hair turned white from wisdom, takes my book and requests $5.

I am in a New York City hotel elevator that is heading down from the 19th floor to the first floor. My attention is not trained on the people coming into and going out of the elevator but instead on a small notice taped to the wall about head high. On it are the words, "A copy of the elevator inspection permit is located at the front desk."

I am looking at a tall, white mound on the dinner plate that the waiter has just placed in front of me. "Is there anything else I can get you?" he asks. "How about what I ordered?" I think. Instead, I thank the waiter and he departs.

I am sitting at my kitchen table and strewn before me are the empty coffins of separated pistachio shells mixed with broken fingernails that used to reside at the tips of my fingers. I look despondently at the measuring cup only a quarter full of pistachios and the heaping bowl of pistachios next to it whose shells have yet to be removed.

The first period comes to an end and the hockey players for both teams skate off the ice. The Zamboni sluggishly comes out of its den and I close my eyes, nod off, and dream I am having a sleepover with college mascots.

No, I did not know. Instead of knee-deep into the refrigerator, Allison is head-deep. I am behind her, sitting at the kitchen counter and checking the weather on my phone. It's supposed to be 73 today and sunny. Just right!

These words are not meant for the racoon who raids my bird feeder every evening and devours sunflower seeds. The feeder is attached to my porch railing in a spot where, from my indoor perch, I can watch the birds eat the seeds meant for them and also watch the squirrels eat the seeds not meant for them.