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Once again we were discussing the question that gnaws at him more than any other: Who and what exactly is he? He has tried to joke about it. What are chimps that we are so mindful of them? The proper study of chimps is chimpkind.

When I tried, not for the first time, to explain that a lot of people ponder the same question, he shook his head. “I am a freak. I am no longer a real chimpanzee. I would rather be fed to the leopards than live among members of my fellow species. They are stupid and loathsome beyond measure. But I am not one of you, either. And never will be.”

“That makes you unique.”

“I don’t want to be unique.”

What could I say? He is a living, breathing lie detector, and he instantly reads my halfhearted affirmations and denials, dismissing them with a snort.

But he can’t help picking at this running sore. He mulls over all the attributes of people — their freedom, their things, their work, their happiness, and, above all, their vistas for the future.

Later that afternoon, Ridley came by to work with Alphus on his memoirs. I happened by and watched the latter dictating with rapid gestures as Ridley typed in the words with extraordinary speed. I noticed that when they had done a couple of pages, Alphus would read it over on the screen of his laptop, making small edits with his hunt-and-peck method. He has promised to let me read a section “when it’s ready.”

I kept resisting a temptation to call Diantha. And say what? You must suffer because of my better nature? Or my weakness? Not that I didn’t suffer. As the day waned, I realized that, instead of a lakeside cookout with Diantha and Elsie and some local friends, I would more than likely go with Alphus and Ridley to some fast-food outlet. Alphus has been asking me lately to take him to a restaurant, one of those places you see in old movies where there are chandeliers, where the ladies are coiffed and gowned and the gentlemen spruced in their tuxes, where the waiters bring you the wine to taste, where life looks like a dream of grace.

I have told him that it’s impossible, that he is still classed as an animal, and that health codes are such that he would have trouble getting served a hot dog by a street vendor.

The best I can do is to take him to one of those eateries that litter the malls like structural confetti. (Not that the malls aren’t themselves a kind of litter.) There, parked outside, Alphus consumes the wretched fare I bring to him. He is partial to cheeseburgers, which he eats with french fries dosed with liberal amounts of ketchup. He also likes a mammoth paper cup full of cola, which he slurps through a straw.

So there we were with Ridley in the backseat, going through the drive-by place, picking up our food, and parking where we could see the whole brightly lit interior. Sitting on his haunches so that he could observe everything that was happening, Alphus ate his meal looking longingly at the people inside.

Nothing of note happened on this holiday evening until a blind man with a white stick and a Seeing Eye dog came in and, like the other customers, stood in line to order. Alphus stopped sucking on his Coke and sat straight up. He nudged me and signed, “What’s that about?”

“A blind man,” I signed back, improvising a gesture for blind by running a finger across my eyes.

He corrected me as he often does with the proper gesture, two fingers to the eyes then pulled away. He remained motionless as the dog led the man over to a table. Presently a young waitress brought them over a basket of fried chicken parts along with a drink and french fries.

Alphus remained calm in an agitated way until the unsighted man, who was tall and gaunt, began feeding bits of his meal to the dog, a German shepherd, which lay placidly at his feet. Alphus began signing so vehemently, I could scarcely keep up with him. “It’s not fair. That animal gets to eat in there and I can’t.”

Ridley from the backseat egged him on.

“It’s a Seeing Eye dog,” I said aloud.

Alphus put his food down so he could keep signing. “I don’t care. Dogs are