"What do you mean, you can't give me your treat?" Ussama was asking. "Because, like I said before, dork, it's a cat treat, and not a dog treat." Ussama and I were in the lonely washing room, somewhere near the back of the house. Containing a washing machine, a dryer, and a small clothes hamper, it was very crowded. It was made even more crowded due to the literally towering piles of clothes... although, thinking about it, our parents didn't actually have very many clothes. Of course, then again, we were only four feet tall. The walls were an off white color, kind of like me, and reflected the fact that the house was just newly built. The neighborhood was, what, only a month or so old? We were the first family to move in, although why we moved was a mystery to me. Of course, why we were in there was simply due to silly antics resulting in the door to the room being locked behind us. It currently glowered like a five hundred pound, damp white colored refrigerator on moving day. I, being resourceful (and lucky,) had located one of those kitty treats (Fishbowl Fishbone Kitty Treats TM) and was now about to eat it. Ussama, however, wanted it for himself. Ussama was a mostly tan brown furred dog, but with a dark brown (bark brown, I'd like to think) tail and spot around his eye. Then he had some sort of light-beige color going on down his belly-fur, as well as yellow eyes and a bright red collar that was rather too large for his slightly skinny neck. Hanging from it was a dark purple skull - mom and dad could be so weird sometimes. "But... Iiiiiick, you know that I hate dog treats! They're like... bits of sawdust glued together with bug intestines!" He replied. "Right. And you know that I love cat treats. They. Are. Delicious." With every word after 'treats,' I took a bite of the dark red fish-shaped treat in my paw. It was not quite as delicious as I had made it out to be. Possibly months of hiding in the morose, inch high gap between the washing machine and the red, tiled floor had made it slightly stale. It was not all that unlike a french fry. Ussama hung his head, sat on one of the smaller clothes piles, and began pouting. When are our parents returning from work? I had to think to myself, sighing and sitting next to him. He scooted away and refused to face me, classic Ussama.