From: "Rupert the Sheep Dog, PhD." Subject: Uncle Rupert, read me a story . . . "Star lite, lite brite, last lite I put in tonight!" Stephen gave a leering grin and a squeal of delight as he pushed the translucent red cylinder into the last little "R" on the black paper. "Lite Brite, Lite Brite, something to a tune . . ." he stopped as he realized that he had just made a clown's face. The kids in the commercial had made a clown's face. What an obvious picture for him to make. That just wouldn't do. No no no. He'd tried so hard . . . finding the one toy he'd been denied, buried in a sea of things they thought he wouldn't be interested in, but he had dug it out! Him, Stephen, doing something no one expected! Only to find that he was playing right into the hands of the Hasbro Corporation. That was even worse than doing what his parents expected. At least he liked his parents. He jumped to his feet, drawing his lips back from his teeth in an animal snarl, or what he at least thought was an animal snarl, wiping the first wave of saliva off of his chin. Stephen wasn't really sure if an animal would wipe its chin, or jowls, or whatever it had. For that matter, he wasn't sure if an animal's snarl would even make saliva drip down his chin, but it felt natural. He drew back his leg, and gave the Lite Brite the strongest kick he could. The weak plug tore out of the wall easily, and the Lite Brite flew through the open french doors. Stephen certainly didn't remember opening the doors. Now who would have opened the french doors? His bestial rage forgotten, he followed his curiosity, which appeared to be leading him towards the stairs. The stairs? Of course, the stairs! That's where he would find everybody else in the house, all the people who might be responsible for opening the french doors. This time, he had to find some answers. How did they know? What could possibly have tipped them off to his kicking the Lite Brite out of the french doors? He didn't know he was going to do it until he lapsed into bestiality, so maybe that was something animals just, well, did. Stephen liked his bestial mood, as he thought of it, because he never knew what he was going to do in it. But if somebody had been able to second guess him, it might not be worth all of the drooling involved. Or maybe, just maybe, somebody had assumed he would lapse into this particular mood while in the basement, and had done so themselves to see what he would do. Who was most likely to do that, he wondered? His curiosity was growing impatient, so he followed it up the stairs, to the front hall. Nobody there, no that was too obvious. The front room he shouldn't go into, because that was where he would find his parents with guests, and guests always got nervous around him, and started forgetting his name, calling him "old chap" and dumb things like that. Maybe they had children named "my good lad" or whatever other nonsense they made up, but his parents had given him a nice traditional name, Stephen. He tried following his curiosity a little farther, but it had quietly slipped away. Stupid curiosity. It just wouldn't quit pestering you until there was the slightest complication, and then you couldn't count on it, even when you needed it. But just then, the butler entered the front hall and gave Stephen his usual respectful nod, with the slight trace of a smile that he always gave Stephen and his mother. Stephen liked the butler, because he didn't seem to care who Stephen was, or what he was doing, or other stupid questions. Instead, he just treated him like he did any other fixture in the house, like the servants, guests, and owners. The butler somehow got to be more formal than everybody else. Whenever Stephen tried to be formal, everybody chuckled and told him what a cute lad he was. Nobody made fun of the butler, that was for sure. Stephen thought it definitely must be the butler who had figured out his plan of going bestial whenever he felt caged by expectations. The butler must be a lot like an animal, he figured. That must be why everybody was careful not to make fun of him when he moved with grace and spoke with formality. The butler was so much an animal that they didn't even try to cage him. Instead they simply had to let him answer the door and introduce guests, and otherwise do as he saw fit. Maybe he should ask the butler whether it was okay to drool on your chin or not. But he had to be subtle about it, didn't he? Otherwise the butler might tear into him like a pack of wild hyaenas. Hyaenas were vicious, weren't they? Being subtle, as Stephen understood it, meant not letting other people know what you were up to. That must mean that his questions should be a surprise. Maybe the direct approach wouuld be subtle, then. It would certainly be surprising. Maybe a question to test the waters first. Stephen ran down to catch the butler on his way to the kitchen. "Mr. Butler, did you open the door?" Good, he didn't seem hyaena-like yet. "No, Master Stephen, I most likely did not. Which door in particular was the young master referring to?" "The french ones in the bottom floor basement place." "Ah, yes. They were in fact opened by yourself, as I recall, Master Stephen. One of the maids informed me earlier that she had seen you open them, and that you had requested that they remain open on account of the fact that you were hoping that some animals might wander in. I concurred that this was a wise decision on your part and instructed her to defer to your judgement completely on this matter. Will that be all, Master Stephen?" Oh, so they were on to his insight about animals. No matter. The butler had let one hint drop, and very subtly, in Stephen's judgement. He was right about the possibility of animals wandering in. It had been some sort of large predatory cat that Stephen had been hoping for. Could he trust the butler further, or was this all a trick? The butler had always been so kind and understanding, and Stephen felt he was at the point where he really needed to confirm his theories . . . yes. He definitely needed to ask the butler's advice. "Mr. Butler? There's just one last thing. Do animals drool alot? When they're angry or threatened?" "They certainly do, Master Stephen, but I would recommend against drooling unduly yourself. It might tend to make people treat you disrespectfully, and you've expressed a great deal of discontent with that to me on other occasions. But I really must attend to other matters, Master Stephen." The butler stepped into the back hallway and left Stephen in the front hall. Stephen drew his lips back from his teeth into what he hoped was a cross between a smile and the expression that a mountain lion had when it came across a deer on the path below it. One stream of saliva slipped out over his bottom lip, and Stephen felt he could finally be happy. All that he had to do was wait until he was big and ferocious like the butler, and then everything would be fine. And how long could that take, really?