Lots of encouraging comments from readers lately. Many of you seem to long for an interspecies connection, an emotional bridge across the boundaries of biological determinism, into a world of pure love. It's odd to call this a desire for a more "humane" lifestyle, but that does seem to capture the feeling, does it not? A banana fell on my floor yesterday. Ripe and yellow, radiant as a blooming sunflower. I'd never had one before. Sniffing did not revel any trace of meat in its aroma, but I ate it anyhow. What can I say? I'm adventurous. It squished like a worm, but a least a worm is meaty. A worm, if you lick it up into your mouth, at first you feel guilty, like "oh, I accidentally licked up a squirming worm," but in one to two seconds you begin to think of the worm as less a living creature and more a tasty meaty snack. When you chew it up it's not bad. It's not a meal, but it can damn sure be an appetizer. This is how nature is. The dog eats the worm, the dog eats the dog, dog eat dog world, dog eat worm. Live with it. Or die with it, brother. The banana I didn't like though.

The most atrocious assault on my space is Froot Loops. Seriously? Tell me where the fruit is in these loops. Tell me in a language I understand. I want to be clear that I don't even like fruit. But I do know what fruit is, because when fruit falls on the floor, I'm eating it. I don't care that I don't like it or what the consequences will be. Maybe you've seen those rubber balls that have a hole in them and people put peanut butter inside and then I lick out the peanut butter. What if a piece of fruit was a secret container for peanut butter, or even steak? There is no way to know except to eat the fruit. And so I eat the fruit. It tastes like pure nasty water. Not my style. But tolerable, because it's from the earth. These Froot Loops are another thing entirely. Crunchy bright colored alien snacks from Satan. No dog should eat those. There's no peanut butter inside. Not a chance. I have looked and looked and looked again. I have peered into every hole. Every tiny hole in the middle of every individual Froot Loop scattered across the wooden floor of my house by some careless hand. I have swallowed the Froot Loops, in search of treasure. My reward? A nasty bout of laryngitis from all of the chemicals and sugar. Heed my warning! The Froot Loops are not fruit. The Froot Loops are not peanut butter. The Froot Loops are damn sure not steak. My hope of one of these Froot Loops giving me pleasure is gone—almost. Because what about this Froot Loop? I will keep investigating.

Across the street lives a child. If I stand on my hind legs and look out the window, I can watch him play. He likes to wave and smile and point at me. His life is free of fear. One day, I'll get him.

[Image by Jim Cooke]