You didn't have the feet; I don't have the heart.

“One-and-two, and three-and-four.” Clickity-click. Clickity-click. “One-and-two, and three-and-four.” ClickClickClick. ClickClickClick. “One-and-two, and three-and-four” Clickty-click-click. Clickit— DING DONG!

“Keep moving, I’ll be right back!”

DING DONG!

“Just a moment,” I shouted, over the music.

DING DONG! DING DONG! DING DONG! DING DONG!

“I said just a mo—Alvin. Simon.”

“Theodore!” my brothers chorused as I swung open the door. (Let’s just get this over with: yes, I am a triplet and my brothers and I are called Alvin, Simon, and Theodore. But it’s not after those chipmunks. I am named after Theodore Roosevelt. Simon is named after my mom’s favorite musical group. And Alvin is Alvin because Garfunkel is weird, even for a pig.) “What are you… I mean… um… did we… did we have plans tonight?” I asked.

“Alvin built a house of straw,” Simon offered. “It’s been blasted to smithereens.”

“Blowed over,” Alvin agreed.

“Blown over,” I corrected him, even though I hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about.

“Whatever,” Alvin said. “We need a place to crash, a place made of bricks, and you’d better let us in quick because there’s a big, ba—dude, what is that clacking noise? It sounds like a thunderstorm on a tin roof in there.” He pointed past me into the house.

“What do you know about tin roofs?” Simon asked. “Your house was a straw lean-to.”

“At least my plates weren’t made of sticks,” Alvin shot back.

“At least I had plates,” said Simon.

“At least my first girlfriend wasn’t Snotty Suzy from Orwell’s Farm. ‘Oh, look at me, I’m so important with my clothes and my walking on two legs’.”

“At least I didn’t piss on your floor.”

“At least I don’t TiVo cooking shows.”

“At least my life’s ambition is not to pilot a plane. It’s called ‘when pigs fly’ for a reason, wanker.”

“At least I’ve never accidentally eaten sausage.”

“At least my name’s not Garfunkel.”

“My name is NOT—”

“STOP IT, BOTH OF YOU!” I shouted. “Look, I don’t know what your issue is, but you can both just sleep here tonight. You’ll have to come back later, though. I’m busy right now. Simon, what’s in your hand?”

“TiVo,” he muttered.

“Seriously, what is that clickity-clacking?” Alvin demanded.

“And dude, what’s on your face?” Simon asked, reaching for me with his hoof.

“Stop it!” I said, ducking away.

Simon snorted. “Is that… are you growing a beard?”

“No.”

“Soul patch?”

“No.”

“Goatee?”

“No!”

“Brah, what is with the hair on your chinny-chin-chin? It’s ridiculous.”

Alvin reached down and picked up a card at my feet. “You dropped this,” he said, flipping it over to read it. I knew at once from the look on his face what had fallen out of my pocket.

“No,” he said, his face lighting up like Christmas. “No effing way. Tapping Teddy’s School of Porcine Prancing. You’re a… dance teacher?”

“Give that back,” I said, snatching at the card.

“No way, man.” Alvin jerked the card away from me. “Dad is going to flip his shit when he sees this. I thought you were a carpenter!”

“I am a carpenter.”

“Carpenters don’t wear tutus. Jesus did not wear a tutu.”

“I do not wear a tutu! I just think dance is an expression of—”

“SHUTUP!” Simon shouted. “Here he comes.” He pointed to the hill behind my house, where a dark figure was skulking toward us.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“The big, bad wolf!” Simon said.

“What! I thought he was locked up with that woman who baked those German kids in an oven.”

“No, he’s out and he knocked down both of our houses and now he’s coming for all three of us.”

“Quick,” I said. “Get inside.”

As I shut and bolted the door behind us, Alvin burst out into a fresh round of giggles. “I cannot believe…” he bent over and clutched his side. “I cannot believe you are a ballerina.”