Roger

What sort of idiot befriends the only viable source of meat protein on a deserted island?

A) A half-drowned idiot
B) A concussed idiot
C) A lonely idiot
D) A pampered idiot
E) All of the above

The correct answer is E.

I was a desperate idiot when I awoke covered in fine, white sand, turquoise water lapping at my feet. Couldn't quite remember how I ended up in my current state. I lifted my head briefly, under the baking sun, only to feel like the Patriots place kicker just punted my bloated skull for 80 yards.

Then I heard curious snuffling, the hair at my temple nudged by something wet and membranous. I turned my throbbing balloon to face the intruder, and there – with mildly-curious dark eyes, and bristly ears half-cocked – was Roger.

My guess is that Roger would have begun nibbling at my nether regions had I not smelled like I worked in a local brewery. I got up and held out my hand to my new friend, who promptly took a step back and snorted, presumably in disgust. Touché, pig.

Despite still feeling like I was being dribbled by Steph Curry, I began an ill-advised survey of my surroundings. I briefly entertained the delirious notion I was the outer husk of an insect, after being drained by a spider.

Roger followed at an un-trusting distance.

Roger

After collapsing under a giant, leafy tree, I noticed Roger was trying to get my attention by rooting in the nearby earth, flinging impossible sprays of the stuff in my general direction. Once he heard me yell, Roger trotted off. I decided he was trying to tell me something.

Not having any basic survival skills whatsoever, I assumed we were headed further toward the center of the island. It was difficult to follow that curly stump of a tail as it darted through dense undergrowth.

Just when I thought I'd lost him, I crashed through another thicket and discovered a small, gorgeous pool. Roger had his nose buried in it, as if showing me what to do. I cupped a palm-full. No salt. I dropped to my belly, going face-deep myself.

Stomach engorged like full tin pail, I followed Roger back to the beach to search for clues to my present predicament. Watching that little rump wriggle reminded of another pressing need – nourishment.

One of my great fears, after being forced to watch the survival movie Alive! in Grade 11 Biology, was one day finding myself in the same moral conundrum as the members of that infamous Uruguayan rugby team. If presented with the choice of eating a friend in order to survive, especially one that just saved my life, could I do it?

Roger is no human, granted, but he didn't start chewing on me right away either.