“Oh, I get it,” I said. “Cookie is obviously the name of some giant alien spaceship bent on the destruction of the Earth, right?”

“No, the cookie is pretty much just a cookie,” answered my feline companion. “Chocolate chip I believe.”

“Oatmeal raisin, actually,” replied the snake. “And if we don’t stop it we’re all dead.”

“Should I worry about any other baked goods, maybe a croissant or evil cheese danish?” I asked.

“No, just the cookie this time,” said the pigeon with what I imagine was his version of a straight face.

“Well, then. What’s our next step?” I said, realizing there was no point in trying to understand what was going on. If fighting an alien cookie would get the talking animals out of my apartment, that’s what I would do.

“Let’s go to Yankee Stadium and talk to the boss.” said the snake. ”’e’ll know what to do.”

“One more thing,” said the snake pointing to my feet with his tail as we were about to leave the apartment. “You’ll need to take those off and put on the bunny slippers.”