I have never had a dog. In fact, I’ve never had a pet. Well, that’s not entirely true. At six, I had a clam that I found on Orchard Beach. I placed it in a jar and decided it would be my pet. I never gave it a name.

One day, the clam opened and a whitish blob with two black dots emerged. I fancied the dots to be eyes. At night I would lie in my bed and stare at the thing in the jar. I didn’t believe in the Bogeyman, but I did fear that my pet clam was plotting to break out of its glass prison and punish me. It terrified me. I was certain it was watching me. Watching and waiting.

Finally, the water turned putrid, and I threw the jar away. I was so relieved that my resentful pet had died that I decided books were safer. Maybe the clam resented me because I never changed the water. Maybe It resented me for never giving it a name.