“I don’t know what you’re so freaked out about,” I told him. “Our servants will take good care of us.”
“They’re going to ship us cargo,” Bucks says. “I do not do cargo.
And what about the food? They eat horses over there . . . and it’s cold, and dark. I won’t have any friends.”
“You don’t have any friends here except for me and the squirrely who is probably nuts. And I’m sure they have warm houses and electric lights in Sweden.” He's not the smartest cat in the house.
“I could make friends here if I wanted to,” he says. “If I. . . .”
“If what?” I ask him.
“I’m to tired to argue.”
“You should try meditation,” I suggest, but he doesn’t answer. He’s like that sometimes when he gets stressed. I’m worried Bucks is planning something—no idea what. It won’t be good; you can be sure of that. I’m starting to sound like him—such a negative attitude.