“Hold still until I tell you you’re ready, Ambrose,” OS says in my mother’s voice. A whir and a whine as Rover ticks along the wall. Once it’s right next to me its tongs emerge, a pellet pinched delicately between them, soft contents bulging. Whatever’s inside its sausage-like casing is a rich and liquidy brown, gas bubbles rising within it. It smells . . . savory. “OS, did Rover just poop?”
