Speaking for the Spoiled Pets

Summary

I was born with a secret: I can understand what animals are saying.

The corgi on the ground floor of our apartment complex threw a tantrum every single morning, cussing out his owner for skimping on his breakfast sausage. Next door, an African Grey parrot ratched endlessly to me through the screen window, whispering petty gossip about how the husband sneaked onto the balcony at midnight to chain-smoke Virginia Slims.

And then, there was the grand, marble-floored estate of the Thurston family.