Mr. Jenkins paced his living room, clutching a sheet of music like a manifesto. Biscuit, his beagle, sat at the piano, tail thumping a rhythm only he could hear. “Play the C major scale,” Jenkins whispered, crouching to meet the dog’s eye level. Biscuit sneezed. The piano emitted a single, shrill note.\n\n”Come on,” Jenkins muttered, waving the sheet music. Biscuit tilted his head, then lunged at the keys, paws slapping D, F#, G. A neighbor pounded on the wall.\n\n”I’m not a menace!” Jenkins yelped, scrambling to pull Biscuit away. The dog wriggled free, nose twitching toward the keyboard. Suddenly, he began tapping a melody—slow, deliberate, somehow *perfect*. Jenkins froze. The notes were wrong, but the timing? Unnerving.\n\nA knock. The neighbor stood in the doorway, holding a wine glass. “That’s… jazz?” she asked. Biscuit howled the final chord. Jenkins opened his mouth to explain, but the dog leaned into him, wet nose pressing against his cheek. “You’re a genius,” Jenkins breathed. Biscuit sneezed again. The piano emitted a single, shrill note.
