Kibler must be cheating. Nobody's this lucky at rummy--especially not a lynx reassigned from a cushy post on Sky Lab 2355 to collect garbage on this floating shithole orbiting the moon. Sorry, that's "Lunar Detritus Retrieval Vessel."
       I drop my cards and toss my final three pieces of copper onto the table. Kibler swivels his tufted ears toward me, extends his claws for added emphasis, and rakes away my ration of a dozen chicken eggs and my entire month's pay. Given the dried protein pellets they dole out to us to eat while in orbit, it's the loss of the eggs that hurts the most.
        "Easy on the table!" Hanrahan roars, licking the pad of a paw and then rubbing at one of the scratch marks Kibler's just gouged into the table's surface. Hanrahan's a neat freak, which is something you don't see often in grizzlies. Black bears, sure, but not these big brown guys.
       Kibler ignores him, and my mouth waters as he wraps spotted forearms around my eggs, pink, taunting tongue licking his lips. I swallow to keep from drooling.
       Fixing me with his yellow eyes, Kibler says, "Oh, dear. . .no eggs now for breakfast, sub-ape?"
        Sub-ape. It's not the worst thing a human can be called, but it's damn near close.
       Hanrahan slams his meaty paw on the table, hammering a decent-sized dent into it that I'm sure he'll bemoan later. "What did I tell you about being a sore winner, Kibler?"
        I'm about to tell Hanrahan that I can fend for myself when the alarm sounds, heralding Gilmore's return. Groaning, I push away from the table.
        "Better hop to it, Schultz," Bukowski says, chortling at her own joke. Only kangaroos find kangaroos funny.
       Heading down to the airlock, I wonder again how humans became the most despised creatures from Earth. The lowest of the low, relegated to menial jobs on rigs like this. Legend has it we were once in charge of everything, but then a dog that had been shuttled into space returned with a universal mammalian language and the means to speak it. It spread like a virus from species to species. Once rats could understand monkeys and rabbits could negotiate with wolves, they figured out a new world order. And that, as they say, was that.
       It doesn't feel fair, but if we humans had done in The Ignominious Age of Man even half the things they say we did--genocide, enslavement, hydrogen bombs, killing other species for sport to the point of extinction, and, for our grand finale, ruining Earth by boiling it and overloading it with trash--then we probably don't deserve any better than what we have now. Even I can figure that out, dumb as I am. Still, it makes for a lonely existence, as we humans do our best to avoid one another out of shame--and nobody else wants much to do with us either.
       I open the airlock and can tell Gilmore's in his usual foul mood. He lifts a lip, showing a long, white tooth, but I know he's not going to bite me. It's not in his nature. Also, it's against regulations, and Gilmore's a stickler for rules.
       "What took you so long?"
        I shrug. "It's a long walk from Level 18."
        "Get this shit off me!" he barks.
        I follow him to the disinfecting module where I remove his suit and four booties. They're covered in sludge from the moon's surface, where Gilmore's been searching for anything repurposeable that might've been dumped there a millennium ago once humans ran out of space for garbage on Earth. It's grueling work, but Gilmore's got the best nose in the fleet. Just last week, he dug out the wheel from an old LRV. Ancient technology, to be sure, but its battery was still functional. So, maybe score one point for mankind?
        I turn on the water and wet Gilmore down. He shakes, soaking me. Then I spread the cleanser onto his neck and back, where his wiry fur is thickest.
       Some say dogs and humans were once close. When he's not so impatient or angry, there's something almost endearing about Gilmore, like the way he has to turn around before lying down or when his tail wags just a little sometimes when he sees me. Right before he stops it, of course.
       I work the soap down his spine and dig in above his tail. He never says anything, just moans, so I know it's his favorite spot.
        "What were you doing on 18?"
        "Losing all my eggs and copper to Kibler."
        "You know he cheats."
        The validation takes away some of the sting. Still, trying to justify losing the eggs as tuition at the School of Don't-Ever-Trust-Lynxes isn't much comfort when staring down a full month of grinding my molars on protein pellets that basically taste like pangolin shit.
       I refuse to explain how I know that.
       "I got a flash memo there's been another flea outbreak in Sector 12," Gilmore says.
        I nod. "Some coyote didn't follow protocol."
        "Fucking coyotes."
        "I disinfected your blankets, just to be safe."
       He stretches his neck when I start working cleanser in there. Human fingers do have their uses.
       "You didn't need to do that, you know. To my blankets. It wasn't on the assigned labor chart."
        "I know."
       He's right; I didn't have to do it. Honestly, I don't know why I did it, and wish he would just shut up about it already.
       Then he says, "I'll share my eggs with you, Schultz, if you'll scramble some up for us both. And afterward, maybe we could sit together, and you could scratch behind my ears for a bit?"
       Gilmore turns his head, and his brown eyes meet mine. I'm thankful when he looks away.
        "Deal," I say, tearing up. And it's not just because he's shaken again and gotten disinfectant in my eye.