This week, Ace disappointed me for the fourth time in the four months I have had him. The first three months were a perfectly--and surprisingly--smooth ride. And then I guess he started to grow up, and not only got comfortable, but also learned to take things for granted. The first time was several weeks ago, when I had been in a rush to get out of the apartment, and I snapped at him right before I left. While I was away for an hour, I felt unreasonably guilty, so I was already planning to give him a small piece of rotisserie chicken as a treat--or an apology--upon return. After going up and down the stairs with several loads of Costco merchandise, I walked into the kitchen, and saw a huge mess on the floor. He had jumped and somehow gotten the tied-up bag of food-trash out of the sink, and ate nearly all of its contents: half-eaten tortillas (because I don't eat tacos properly, so they say), saucy Styrofoam containers, browned banana peels... There was a myriad of things that...