The neighbors came over Thursday to discuss Kong.

Apparently, they were concerned.

“He’s enormous.”

“Yes.”

“And he’s living in your garden.”

I looked toward the window.

Kong was sitting among the roses, minding his own business.

“Where else would I put him?”

They looked at each other.

People do that when they don’t have a reasonable answer.

“He could be dangerous.”

“Kong?”

I laughed.

That seemed to concern them more.

“He’s very gentle. Unless you startle him.”

“How do you startle a forty-foot gorilla?”

“I wouldn’t recommend finding out.”

Kong leaned toward the window.

The neighbors left shortly afterward.

I couldn’t imagine why.

Most mornings, I’d find him sitting beyond the house, watching everything with the quiet suspicion of someone who had already decided humanity was poorly organized.

We understood each other.

And whenever I wanted to travel, there were no tickets, no luggage restrictions, and certainly no middle seats.

I simply climbed into his hand.

This concerned other people considerably more than it concerned me.

“Are you sure that’s safe?”

No.

But neither is Interstate 10.

At least Kong pays attention.

Besides, everyone should have one friend who makes the rest of the world look reasonably sized.

Mine just happens to need the garden.