The One and Only Ivan. Katherine Applegate

Bob says from his perch on my belly. “I’m dreaming about chilli fries.”

      “I’m tired,” I say, “but I’m not sleepy.”

      “What are you tired of?” Stella asks.

      I think for a while. It’s hard to put into words. Gorillas are not complainers. We’re dreamers, poets, philosophers, nap takers.

      “I don’t know exactly.” I kick at my tyre swing. “I think I may be a little tired of my domain.”

      “That’s because it’s a cage,” Bob tells me.

      Bob is not always tactful.

      “I know,” Stella says gently. “It’s a very small domain.”

      “And you’re a very big gorilla,” Bob adds.

      “Stella?” I ask.

      “Yes?”

      “I noticed you were limping more than usual today. Is your leg bothering you?”

      “Just a little,” Stella answers.

      I sigh. Bob resettles. His ears flick. He drools a bit, but I don’t mind. I’m used to it.

      “Try eating something,” Stella says. “That always makes you happy.”

      I eat an old, brown carrot. It doesn’t help, but I don’t tell Stella. She needs to sleep.

      “You could try remembering a good day,” Stella suggests. “That’s what I do when I can’t sleep.”

      Stella remembers every moment since she was born: every scent, every sunset, every slight, every victory.

      “You know I can’t remember much,” I say.

      “There’s a difference,” Stella says gently, “between ‘can’t remember’ and ‘won’t remember’.”

      “That’s true,” I admit. Not remembering can be difficult, but I’ve had a lot of time to work on it.

      “Memories are precious,” Stella adds. “They help tell us who we are. Try remembering all your keepers. You always liked Karl, the one with the harmonica.”

      Karl. Yes. I remember how he gave me a coconut when I was still a juvenile. It took me all day to open it.

      I try to recall other keepers I have known – the humans who cleaned my domain and prepared my food and sometimes kept me company. There was Juan, who poured Pepsis into my waiting mouth, and Katrina, who used to poke me with a broom when I was sleeping, and Ellen, who sang “How Much is That Monkey in the Window?” with a wistful smile while she scrubbed my water bowl.

      And there was Gerald, who once brought me a pack of fat, bright crayons and a luscious pad of thick paper.

      Gerald was my favourite keeper.

      But mostly it’s Mack I recall, day in and day out, year after year after year. Mack, who bought me and raised me and says I’m no longer cute.

      As if a silverback could ever be cute.

      Moonlight falls on the frozen carousel, on the silent popcorn stand, on the stall of leather belts that smell like long-gone cows.

      The heavy work of Stella’s breathing sounds like the wind in trees, and I wait for sleep to find me.

      The Beetle

      Mack gives me a new black crayon and a fresh pile of paper. It’s time to work again.

      I smell the crayon, roll it in my hands, press the sharp point against my palm.

      There’s nothing I love more than a new crayon.

      I search my domain for something to draw. What is black?

      An old banana peel would work, but I’ve eaten them all.

      Not-Tag is brown. My little pool is blue. The yogurt raisin I’m saving for this afternoon is white, at least on the outside.

      Something moves in the corner.

      I have a visitor!

      A shiny beetle has stopped by. Bugs often wander through my domain on their way to somewhere else.

      “Hello, beetle,” I say.

      He freezes, silent. Bugs never want to chat.

      The beetle’s an attractive bug, with a body like a glossy nut. He’s black as a starless night.

      That’s it! I’ll draw him.

      It’s hard, making a picture of something new. I don’t get the chance that often.

      But I try. I look at the beetle, who’s being kind enough not to move, then back at my paper. I draw his body, his legs, his little antennae, his sour expression.

      I’m lucky. The beetle stays all day. Usually bugs don’t linger when they visit. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s feeling all right.

      Bob, who’s been known to munch on bugs from time to time, offers to eat him.

      I tell Bob that won’t be necessary.

      I’m just finishing my last picture when Mack returns. George and Julia are with him.

      Mack enters my domain and picks up a drawing. “What the heck is this?” he asks. “Beats me what Ivan thinks he’s drawing. This is a picture of nothing. A big, black nothing.”