Robert Kennedy returned from work, entered the front door of his large white house, Hickory Hill, kicked off his shoes, removed his suit coat, loosened his tie, walked over the black and white tiles of the hallway floor, past the enormous black Newfoundland named Brumus, five children, the governess, a nurse, three maids, past the open doors leading to the rooms all painted in bright reds and greens, unbuttoned his shirt, tousled his hair, walked out the back door past the iguana and the sea turtle, removed his shirt, his belt, his pants, headed towards the swimming pool where a young sea lion sat poolside, and he (in just shorts and socks) and the sea lion dove into the cool water. Kennedy opened his eyes under water; he saw the animal beside him. He lifted his head above the surface of the water. “The weather is good today, Sandy,” he said and flipped to float on his back. “Really nice. There’s fresh sardines in the barn; let’s go.”

Kennedy lifted himself out of the pool at its edge; the sea lion took the pool’s steps. On the lawn as they marched past, the family goose pushed a shining jelly jar into its nest, confusing it for one of its eggs. Goose pimples formed on Kennedy’s skin as the air evaporated the water. He opened the barn door. Inside were sardines in a large pail. He threw a few to the barking sea lion. They bared their teeth at each other.

“You peed in the pool, didn’t you?”

Sandy shrugged. What was I to do.

“This is not your home. Not close, is it boy?”

Sandy flopped out of the barn, back to the pool, and dove back in the water. He splashed with his tail.

Robert Kennedy smelled the water from the pool in his hair and the fresh sardines. “Son of a bitch. The whole world’s a son of a bitch,” he said. He sprinted towards the pool and cannonballed in. Sandy barked wildly.