My feet dangled off the chair, a few feet from the floor, food untouched. Perching at the dining room table of family friends, I found that there was something in that Beacon Hill brownstone I couldn’t stop eyeing. It wasn’t the view of Boston; it wasn’t the warm blueberry pie; it wasn’t the antique rifles. It was furry, white peppered with black patches, and dead. I tried to choke down my spaghetti, but my efforts proved...