The narrator recounts anecdotes that may be connected by vermin, or animal cruelty, or human cruelty, or kindness, or just general cluelessness.
This is a very “New Yorker” story: not much by way of plot, a lot of indistinguishable characters of an artistic middle class stratum (MFA programs seem to be the main connective tissue), and anecdotes that are recounted colorfully and with some vigor but don’t seem to coalesce into a discernible whole. It’s not that I don’t enjoy this kind of story – I do, the writing is tight and sometimes remarkable – but I don’t expect it to stick in my head enough to bubble up at surprising moments and make me see things in a new way.