Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

At exactly 4:00 a.m., Baloo let out some soft, tragic whimpers in the living room, the sort that scream, “I’m dying.” Naturally, I launched out of bed like some sort of barefoot superhero wannabe, convinced he’d poisoned himself again with his usual street delicacies: some dubious leftovers from a fast food bag and something that I think used to be a bird.

By 4:01, I was standing at the open patio door like an idiot, bracing for a doggy emergency that never came.

Within seconds, it hit me: I’d been scammed. Again. By the Expert. And now, back on the bed, Baloo had snuggled himself into my spot, already snoring, his ears on Do Not Disturb. Moving him would’ve required all my strength and would definitely have woken Irina, and I had no intention whatever of making the second mistake of the night.

At 4:05 a.m., I was snoring in my office, betrayed but oddly impressed.

[All this time, Gicu hadn’t made a sound or moved even half an inch, quietly guarding his own spot in the bed.]