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instructed.
    “You’re not my boss,” he snappped, and then stuck his oatmealed tongue out at me.
    “Yes, I am,” I stated, thinking I should have the same “seniority” here that Hippo and Horsey had in my bedzoo.
    “No, you’re not.”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “No, you’re not.”
    If our father were here he’d administer Ike an A1 immediate attitude adjustment.
    “Isaac Aloysius Swishback McCarther, you apologize to your sister this minute and eat your oatmeal, young man. Or you will find yourself . . .”
    I listed the delicious menu of choice punishments: in the corner, in your room, no TV, to bed early . . . Ike would apologize fast. My skinky brother had stubbornly refused to do what I commanded and was still just pushing and pulling his now cold oats.
    I looked over to Dad’s chair. Since it was empty I could see past it to the corner of our kitchen counter where a stack of unopened mail addressed to him was piled high.
    “Eat.”
    “Why?”
    “It is your duty,” I exactly explained because I know he sometimes forgets.
    “Doodeee!!” He howled. “Doodeee!” he repeated, and ran upstairs, laughing, basketball-bouncing the word over and over and over in his mouth as if it were funnier than yogurt, llama, and spatula all smushed together.
    “Yogullamatula,” I weakly yelled after him.
    “Doodee! Doodee!” he yelled down the stairwell in his annoying super-squeaky voice.
    “Ike Sense,” I tried to reassure myself, but couldn’t. Not liking his behavior one bit, I stomped upstairs to report the event to my mother. I pushed open her door. At the foot of her bed she was doing the jumpy dance she does while pulling on her panty hose.
    “Isaac Swishback McCarther did not finish his breakfast AND he stuck out his tongue at me with food on it! Uchhh.” As soon as I said it I wanted to slurp the words back but I couldn’t, so instead I kept going. “And then, and then, and then, he kept making fun of the word duty! It is not a funny word. Not even nearly as funny as llama. Not even close. He just doesn’t understand how important that word is!”
    Then, like an unknotted birthday balloon that had just finished whizzing the room, I plopped onto the corner of my dad’s side of the bed.
    Flowery print skirt crumpled around her hips like a life preserver, Mom finished yanking her stretchy panty hose into place, then rested her hands on my shoulders and rubbed them.
    “You have to remember he is still too young to really understand the meaning of some very important words. Wouldn’t you say?”
    I nodded, too tired to answer with words.
    “BUT, missy,” she continued sternly, “don’t be a tattletale.”
    Ouch, I thought to myself. A tattletale. That’s what I sounded like? A tattletale. One single step above a fustilug. Wasn’t I in charge when my parents weren’t around? Why was it tattling when it was clearly Ike who was way wrong? Not fair!
    “Now, let’s get going. Shoes on, backpack packed. We’ll talk more about this later. We’re going to be late for school.”
    I did an about-face and fast-turned into my room. Stray animals, dirty clothes, books, and dolls dotted the pink carpeting. At that moment the whole mess seemed like it was absolutely my elephant, Edgar’s, fault. I kicked him and he tumbled trunk over tail into the darkness under my bed. Anyway, he was not a real live animal, I thought as I got dressed.
    Not being a tattletale was definitely a Dad rule, but if Dad were here he would definitely make Ike understand about duty.
    Jaguar
    My first nursery school teacher gave Julian my jet-black jaguar to me in Kenya. She said jaguars moved the most beautifully of all the animals.
    U nlike home, school was still mostly the same routine. My teacher, Ms. Pitcher, had us read and write, and when we got tired we would do arithmetic.
    For our class play we put on my favorite scary story, Little Red Riding Hood. I wanted to be her, but so did every other girl in the class. We all liked