The porch was the easiest place to relax, so Cornell made that his roost on most days. His dad modified one of the lawn chairs, cutting a large hole in the back through which he could slide his tail. It wasn’t perfect, but it was rather good. From the chair he would look out on the street. He considered it living theater, even though there was no singing and dancing and nobody shouted their lines, except Old Man Art, who was hard of hearing and who Cornell suspected could hear just fine and was using the whole hearing thing as an excuse to shout at everybody, even babies and dogs.

Cornell, relaxing on the porch in his special chair, smelled something familiar. It was something delicious. He pulled himself free of the chair and walked into the house. Following his long nose, he poked his head into Robert, Jr.’s bedroom where he and his friend Red were sitting on the floor. Robert’s small glass bong sat between them. It was the ornate one Robert had inherited from uncle Clem.

“What’re you guys doing?” said Cornell.

“What does it look like we’re doing?” said Robert.

“Take it, Bobby,” said Red as he started coughing.

“Can I have some?” said Cornell. He hadn’t tried any pot since the change, and he wanted to see how it was.

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“I guess so,” said Robert.

Cornell came further in, but he was so large that his tail stuck out into the hallway. He eagerly crawled up to the bong. He picked up the lighter in his left claw and was overjoyed to find that he could flick the wheel. He put the flame on the herb in the bowl while trying to get his long snout onto the mouthpiece at the top of the smoke chamber, but had trouble making a seal. Without a good seal, he wouldn’t be able to draw smoke into the chamber.

He struggled to get a better position on the mouthpiece, but couldn’t manage it. His reptilian brain registered that nobody offered to help, either. Just as he was thinking of giving up and seeing if any edibles were around, the glass shattered. Cornell jumped back and shook glass shards out of his mouth.

“Get the fuck out of here!” screamed Robert.

“I’m sorry,” said Cornell. He knew how much that bong meant to his brother. It was the only reminder they had of uncle Clem, who had drown two years earlier while hopping naked (and uninvited) into a neighbor’s whirlpool. He had been drunk as Cooter Brown at the time, which Sheriff Martin said was a contributing factor in his demise. Cornell thought it strange that everyone in the family hated Clem until he died, and now he was all but revered. It was kind of cool that uncle Clem’s death certificate said Death By Misadventure, but that was all.

“Let’s drink some beer,” Cornell offered. “I think we have some Easy Living.”

Robert, Jr.’s angry stare and Red’s refusal to meet his eyes were answer enough. He slowly backed out of the room and walked back to the front porch.