I used to have favorite buildings. Especially when I lived in New York City, there were a handful of buildings I would walk out of my way to see.

You never think a man can come between you and your best friend until he does. It’s the stuff of trashy daytime TV, for people who consider Cheetos a food group and would gladly exchange 15 minutes of fame for a seat on the sofa next to Jerry Springer.

One evening as night began to fall, two mama bears met in the forest. With them were their baby cubs, round bustling balls of fur who believed the world to be one large adventure — every day made for sleeping and every night for exploring at their mother’s sides.

My son and I are standing on the 50-yard line of a fresh, green football field. Two goal posts on each side. Bleachers in front of us. We’re ready to play, and there’s only one problem: We don’t have a ball.

About a month ago, someone snuck into our house in the dead of night and replaced my son’s voice box with that of a parrot. When I discovered what had happened, my first thought was, “Someone should call the cops.” But then I came to my senses.