Mikhail’s Navy

This little bastard is named Mikhail. He’s been taking his meals on our deck for six months now, completely undeterred by shouting or glass-banging or  garbage cans with lids shut tight. I used to pound on the door and scream at him and shake my fist like some old Italian woman in a housedress and those orthopedic slippers they advertise in the back of the SmartSource coupon book, but now I pretty much let him forage through our leftovers at will: he might be a messy effing eater, but until Tom caves and gets me the puppy I’ve always dreamed of, good  ole Mikhail’s the closest thing I’ve got to a pet. And, clearly, he’s more than willing to pose for the occasional portrait.