I guess it would depend upon whether you're an optimist or a pessimist. It was late one Saturday night that I was lying in bed either half asleep or half awake (I don't have a preference as to which perspective is used, for I am neither a member of the optimist nor pessimist factions. I am a realist. A real realist). My eyes were half open or half closed when they spied a giant shadow skulking across the wall, then the bookshelf.

Rats—or so I thought, deciding that a call to the exterminator, and a subsequent extermination was in order. The shadow continued then, past the radiator, past the dresser, and into the corner where I keep my dirty laundry and garbage. I sat up just then and searched for its source, but only managed to frighten the creature back into the darkness.

The next day I took it upon myself to clean my apartment—something that I hadn't done for months. Mind you, I am not a slob. I would prefer, rather, to attribute the condition of my dwelling to cumulative negligence, rather than slobbishness. In that respect, I would presume myself optimistic.

It was slow going, I must say. For the amount of refuse was so abundant that I lacked any intermediary space to separate the garbage from the not-so-garbage. The whole chore took me close to nine hours. I had nearly forgotten my encounter with the rat from the night before. So as could be surmised, I was quite astounded to find an abundance of rat shit speckled beneath various piles of laundry. It was now Sunday and I figured I'd have a better chance of hiring an exterminator the following day. So I waited. I could put up with it another night.

At dinnertime I fried some fish and ate it right out of the pan—something I learned from my father. It wasn't half bad, or half good either. I think that the wine I was drinking may have played some role in that, but what did it matter. There I sat, reading an old newspaper, guzzling cheap wine, and eating even cheaper fish when I saw it. The most peculiar thing that I have ever laid eyes on. Not a rat, as I had concluded the previous night from a glance of its shadow, this was something unprecedented. No one had seen one these before.

To begin with, it had six legs. No mammal has six legs. I was sure of this, but I was equally sure that it was a mammal. It seemed to be a rodent, although its eyes were pushed much closer to the front of its face than say a rat or ferret. It moved like a ferret though, or a weasel—low to the ground, its sleek body undulating with the motion of its busy legs.

The thing was on my stereo and had jumped to the floor when I spotted it. It was heading right for me, or perhaps the smell of my food, at a cautious, yet deliberate pace, much like a cat on the hunt. Then it saw me. Its body tensed—its head turned upward in what closely resembled a scowl, giving the creature a simian flavor.

So it stared up and I stared down. I'm not sure how long this went on for but it ended when the creature turned rather unexpectedly—with a one hundred eighty degree hop—and darted for my bedroom. Now that was an amusing sight. It was very quick, and with its six legs and undulating body, it resembled a furry brown locomotive. Unhesitating, I followed. However, my little friend proved much too fast for me.

He was gone.

For the rest of the evening I perused the bedroom for his hiding place, but with no success. I decided to call in sick at work in order to continue my search.

After all…

This was important.

I would be famous.

Not just for discovering this new animal, but for being the first to study its behavior.

The next day he came out around lunchtime. At this juncture, I realized that he must have been living in my apartment for some time, perfectly concealed by the garbage and laundry. Once again it was the smell of food that lured him from his holdout. He rounded the corner between the hallway and the kitchen, just in time to see me polishing off a slightly aged piece of cherry pie. When he saw me he stopped. Again we locked eyes. This time he raised himself to his hindquarters. I bent down cautiously, placing the pie on the floor, then backed away.

It was nearly thirty minutes before he would take the food. Twice he had whirled about, heading back to the bedroom. However, in each instance he returned once he knew that I wasn't going to chase him. When he did eat, it was in gigantic, piggish gulps. I watched this and was fortunate enough to procure a glimpse of the animal's teeth. They were like a rodent's, or perhaps a dog's—the one notable exception being four canine teeth on the top row. Unfortunately this was all the opportunity that I was afforded as it had only taken seconds for the beast to devour the pie, after which he rudely scurried away.

I began to keep a journal after that. Each day I would coax the little fellow out of the bedroom for a short feeding, taking notes as he went about his business. He wasn't very particular about what he ate, everything from meat and potatoes to Jello and crackers. At that point in time I had him pegged for a scavenger, most likely a rodent.

Ten days passed and I sent notice to my employer of my disinterest in returning to work. I had some money saved. Moreover, I had begun to regard my endeavor as a short-term investment in research, certain that I would multiply my earnings one thousand fold once I let the world in on my discovery.

On the twelfth day, he was eating out of my hand. At this close proximity, I was able to note some surprising qualities. The first being the creature’s intelligence. Not only had he grown accustomed to my presence, but also his alertness was nearly human. I have never before or since seen another animal gaze so knowingly back at me. It made me reclassify my little friend as a primate.

I named him Bob. By day sixteen he had started to come out of hiding prompted only by the sound of my voice. It only seemed natural to give him a name, even if it wasn't such a clever one. In the days that followed I noticed a change in Bob that was at first difficult to perceive. He was lazy, sluggish, and almost sickly. This, I understood to be my fault. It became apparent that my concern with Bob's diet had focused upon what he would eat as opposed to what he should. It was this day, the nineteenth I believe, that I began my study of Bob's food intake. What had I been thinking? Cake, pie, twinkies. How could I have been so stupid, to think of him as some sort of garbage disposal?

A stroke of brilliance on my part pointed me toward my next course of action—a buffet. In the afternoons, I would lay out a variety of unique foods for Bob to sample. Fruits, meats, breads, nuts, anything I could think of. He seemed to prefer breads, or grains to be more precise. He ate some meat, but would leave the rest as a last alternative.

It took about a week for him to recover. He emerged from his hiding place the following Monday, with a shiny coat and a lean appearance. This I presumed was how nature intended him to look. He was a picture of health and I decided then that our time had come. We would introduce ourselves to the media and the scientific world.

It took some time, more time than I had hoped, to be granted an audience anywhere. No one wanted to talk to me and those who finally did thought I was a crackpot. A few suggested that I contact one of those rag-mags from the supermarket. We don't do shows about the paranormal, was a common response. Paranormal? But I've got one right here! I would say, but then they'd hang up. The general consensus was that I was either lying or crazy. But we finally did get someone to listen.

Nick Waterly hosted a fairly distributed, syndicated talk show on channel nine. He said that he'd put me on the show with a bunch other 'zoological discoveries' as he put it. In my mind I pictured a small group of eggheads with worms or bugs that happened to be a different color or shape than the rest of the worms and bugs in the world. I could just imagine the shock of seeing something like Bob, well trained and totally unique.

Of course, this turned out to be just a dream of mine. I arrived on the set of the show only to discover that I'd been grouped with the most incredulous collection of lunatics and charlatans that I'd ever seen. I was disappointed, but got over it quickly enough. The most important thing was that Bob would be seen by thousands of people. Once our integrity was intact, we’d sell ourselves to the network shows for big money.

Nick Waterly came out and introduced us. I was last. He talked to a guy with an "'imaginary" animal friend, who followed him around town and occasionally siphoned the gas from his car.

"'He drinks gasoline", the fellow had said.

To which Nick responded with an expression of concern. "Just a word to our young viewers out there. Never drink gasoline."

The next person was a woman with what appeared to be a taxidermed eagle with horns. I waited for Nick to caution the young viewers about the legal ramifications of killing eagles, but he refrained. He went on to the next guest. A old man with some blurry Bigfoot photos. This took some time and I wondered if I'd ever get my chance. With less than five minutes to go, Nick introduced us.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is..." he said my name. "And you've brought...?"

"Bob." I said slightly embarrassed by the name.

He smiled with no idea as to what was about to take place. "OK, lets meet Bob."

Everyone applauded. I could see their faces, each one so amused by this freak show before them. They were patronizing me. I hated them. I opened up the cardboard box on my lap, and put a stop to all that forced appreciation. Bob jumped out, and onto my shoulder. He handled celebrity well, just like I knew he would.

The crowd went silent, and Nick Waterly dropped his microphone to the ground. The viewers at home were provided with a twenty five-second glimpse of Bob before the show ended and the credits rolled.

They ran it on the news—almost every channel—those snobbish halfwits, the same ones who called me crazy. The phone and doorbell were chiming away with offers. I knew that I'd get my big payoff eventually, but I had already agreed to go back to the Nick Waterly Show the following day. After all, he had given me a chance when no one else would. And besides that, I rather enjoyed making those vultures wait.

"So what is a Bob?" Nick's show was being piped into millions of homes this time. I sat onstage, Bob on my shoulder, drinking in the attention.

"A Bob..." I chuckled. "...is a mammal. He’s a primate as best as I can tell."

"Can I pet him?" Nick cautiously extended his hand toward Bob.

"Sure" I said, not quite so sure that it was a good idea.

So Nick tried to pet him, but Bob jumped over to my other shoulder, firing an annoyed _expression Nick’s way.

"Guess he’s not so social today", Nick said, drawing back his outstretched arm, "Tell me something...", he crouched down beside us, feigning deep thought, "How smart is Bob? Smart as a chimp?"

"Smarter", I said, not so sure that it was true, but I figured comments like that could only boost our rise to stardom. Everyone seemed impressed.

"Maybe even smarter than us?" I postulated.

Nick conjured up a mock indignance, "Speak for yourself, buddy." The audience laughed and on the heels of that we cut to commercial.

When we came back Nick asked me all about Bob. Where did I get him? What does he eat? Does he do any tricks? To each of these I responded as honestly as possible. I detailed my interaction with Bob from day one. Explaining my intent to document the creature’s behavior.

I had well-rehearsed, oil-slick responses for the most basic queries.

"Shouldn’t you have called a zoo, or animal control?" "What if Bob is a disease carrier?" "What makes you an expert on animal behavior?"

I had poorly conceived, spontaneous answers for these questions and for a time, I appeared to be a bit of an ass.

"Why hasn’t anyone ever seen a Bob before?" Nick had pulled back from his vicious journalistic approach from before. His voice was now friendly, inquisitive.

"I suspect that there are very few Bob’s, or Bobus Simianus in the world."

"Bobus Simianus? Is that...?"

"The classification name", I interjected. I had planned on naming the classification after myself, but it appeared that the name ‘Bob’ had more sticking power.

"I see, but still, don’t you think that someone—someone else—that is, would have met up with a Bob at some time?"

"Perhaps they have and didn’t realize it. I myself mistook him for a rat when I first saw him. Or maybe they avoid people, they’re intelligent enough to stay hidden from us if they desire to do so."

My final statement of substance proved so incorrect that now, even to think of it, makes me ill.

"But then again", I said, "It could be that Bob is the last of his kind. He may be the first, and last Bobus Simianus ever recorded."

The next day, the news was thick with pictures and quotes from my interview. The phone wouldn’t shut up, and I had everyone from picketers to police outside my apartment complex. I couldn’t leave. At lunchtime, Bob and I sat at the kitchen table eating strips of steak and baked potatoes. The doorbell rang. I assumed that it was the police since no one had been permitted into the apartment complex since my interview. The police would occasionally pop in to ‘check up’ on me, which actually meant that they wanted to get a look at Bob.

"Who’s there?" I said.

"It’s me, Jack Bennett, from 4A." Jack was the older fellow who lived down the hall.

"What can I do for you, Jack?" Bob jumped down from the table and skittered over toward the doorway to see what was going on.

"Well, I just thought you should know. I just saw that little monkey of yours, downstairs in the laundry room. Thought you should know it’s loose."

I looked over at Bob, puzzled. Bob looked back, and I swear that he was confused as well.

"Is this joke, or a trick, Jack?"

"No, no. I went down to check on my sheets, and there it was. When it saw me, it climbed up the pipes and into a hole in the ceiling."

I went down to check it out, but found nothing. I did see the hole and the pipes though. I figured that it had to have been a rat, as I couldn’t believe that Mr. Bennet would lie about something like that.

The remainder of the day revealed one puzzling twist after another. Mrs. Comden, the Super’s wife said she’d seen Bob too. She was very descriptive, and I started to doubt that Mr. Bennet had been mistaken. Did it mean that there was another Bobus Simianus in the complex? It seemed the only explanation as Bob had been with me the entire day. Greedily, I plotted out how I might be able to lure this one out.

Foolish.

The ten o’clock news reported several Bob sightings throughout the area. At this time they were going over like Elvis sightings. Bob—everybody wants one. But by morning, everyone could have one—they were everywhere. Not just sightings either. There were thousands of Bobs wandering the streets of the city. The story dominated every television and radio station. All of my dreams of fortune and recognition were put to their grave. It struck me, just then, that perhaps Bob hadn’t been sick or malnourished back in those early days. Could it be that Bob was a girl? Or at least capable of producing offspring. Could Bob have been pregnant?

Then, at six o’clock that evening, a bad situation turned worse. The bobs had made their first kill. A mother and daughter had sat down on a bench in the park when approached by a lone Bobus Simianus. It was distracting them. For as they watched, mesmerized by its antics, hundreds leaped on them from behind. Onlookers who attempted to involve themselves, were also attacked. The bobs, it seemed hunted in packs. The following morning, the cover of the Globe read Bobus Carniverous!

In the days and weeks that followed many things were learned, and many people died. It seemed that I had not outlined the behavior and eating habits of the average bob, but the geriatric, fertile bob. For in their youth, bobs are carnivorous little monsters, hunting even the largest of prey with carefully thought out attack plans. According to experts, of which I am not one, a young adult bob could eat up to three times its body weight in meat a day. It was horrible! There would be a weekly purge, as they called it as each week would give birth to a new poison, trap, virus, or vehicle that would finally rid us of what the media had now begun to call ‘land piranha’. The streets would clear. Every man, woman and child would breath easy for a few hours. But the following morning, they would be back. Back again and somehow immune or impervious to whatever had banished them before.

And the attacks were only a part of it. The months that followed spawned legions of mature, fertile, bobs—scavengers on par with rats or giant cockroaches. Homes and businesses became infested with them. The city was littered with starved corpses, both human and bob.

And it was my fault.

All of it.

I could have starved him, or poisoned him, or just stepped on him. But I didn’t. I fed him. I sheltered him. I made him famous. I killed people and no one has forgotten.

A pessimist would say that my worst fears have been realized. This is true as I am completely out of funds. An optimist would say that my wildest dreams have become substance. And this, too, is true. For I have acquired a quality of fame that will most assuredly make a dent in posterity. But I am a realist and the reality of it all is this; I am hated, I am pitied, I have caused more pain than I have quenched.

And Bob—my Bob—he’s still around. He keeps me company, my only friend in a world of enemies.

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