This pet was supposed to make her last car trip to the vet this week. She’s eighteen years old for christ sakes, and meaner than a widowed, one eyed, overweight, misogynistic librarian supervising detention hall. She weights six pounds soaking wet, has a head the size of a golf ball, and falls asleep without warning while standing up.

She’s the first cat I rescued. Itchy. I chose her because she was the only cat at the shelter that hissed at me when I approached her cage. I told my father that I was afraid she was too mean to find a home, and she needed me more than the others did. Together, we were Hell on Wheels for seven years. My mom decided Itchy would be better off remaining with her when I got my first apartment after college. It didn’t seem right to confine her indoors when she had always had the option of outdoor living.

When I returned to my Mom’s, Itchy always remembered and acknowledged me by placing a paw against my cheek. In the hormonal turmoil that defines the transition from adolescence to adulthood, we were mates. We shared stubbornness, feistiness, head rubs, and ice cream. She’s lived a long healthy life, and she refuses to let go without a fight. She has congenital heart failure, and we agree we don’t want her to suffer… She is too fuckin’ mean to die on her own. I’ve been coming to terms with the inevitable for the past month and I’m okay with it, because it’s about doing what is best for her. She isn’t ready yet and still has much fight left.

This pet was only eight. Lucy became a member of my mother’s household because my mother has sucker stamped on her forehead. My mother gave her a home because a neighbor needed a favor. My mother has kept cats, fish, bunnies, and dogs, but she favors cats. Dogs have always held an ornamental status in her household. They were always well fed, and their health issues were attended, but they never received enough of the personalized attention dogs need and crave.

Lucy was different. She inserted herself into my mother’s life and refused to be ignored. She was a collie mix, a working dog, and she needed a job. Undeterred by the absence of livestock, Lucy herded my mother’s cats. All five of them. When my mother would pull into the driveway, Lucy would round up all the cats who were outdoors and drive them into the house. When Lucy tried to playing with the cats they hissed, slapped, or snubbed her. Not one to accept defeat, Lucy adopted her very own kitten to raise.

This is Linus. Notice the resemblance? No one seems to know where Linus came from, but Lucy raised him as if he were her own. the family has always been impressed the dog selected a kitten with markings similar to her own. They were often spotted curled up together on the porch. When Linus unwillingly donated his nads to science, Lucy comforted him and nursed him back to health.

After the kitten was raised, Lucy turned her attention to my mother. After my mother fell off a stepladder trimming hedges, Lucy refused to leave her side. Lucy considered my mother to be her responsibility. From that day onward, Lucy seldom left my mother’s side. Lucy transitioned from yard dog to house dog. In the early phase she was quarantined to her dog bed in the kitchen, later she had the run of the house and guarded my mother’s bed at night.

A week ago, Lucy had a seizure. She was taken to the veterinarian’s office and my mother received instructions from the vet. They took a Let’s wait and see approach. A few days later the dog had another seizure and she had difficulty coming out of it. She was taken back to the vet and kept for observation. After the vet ran some tests, he sent the dog home again with prescriptions for phenobarbital and valium.

Lucy never really awoke from the stupor after that. Her eyes were dilated, she was lethargic. Linus came and laid with her. She had three more seizures, and lost control of bowels. My sister maid plans to take the dog to the vet the for the final time the following morning. My sister miraculously talked my mother into staying home while she had the dog. My mom had already seen the dog at her worst, there was no reason to be present for the needle.

Lucy had suffered from brain damage. Her mouth was dry, and her eyes unfocused. My sister was upset that the vet allowed the dog to return home. My mother is a petite disabled woman. She might have been a lion tamer in her youth, but she no longer has the strength to wrangle a seventy-five pound dog. Of all the trials and tribulations my mother should endure in her life, I would have preferred she not have to deal with this one.

This dog was supposed to be here to keep my mother company. This dog was needed to be a good listener, because I know my mother talks to her non-stop during waking hours. This dog was supposed to be present for all successive family gatherings so we would someone to blame for the unfortunate toxic side effects of my sister’s broccoli casserole. This dog was supposed to be here, because my mom needs her.

It started off as one of THOSE days. He slept late which was fine, but after waking he concluded we didn’t have enough time to review paint swatches and leave in time to get breakfast before his appointment. Reluctantly, I forfeited printing out my crossword puzzle, and snatched my mediocre novel from the night stand so we could grab breakfast at a diner before waiting at the chiropractor’s office.

We’ve been trying to consolidate trips across town. It isn’t that we can’t afford the gas. We can. The rising gas prices have had little relative impact on our budget when compared to other families. I’m also aware how lucky we are to live in the U.S. when you compare the fuel costs to European nations. Basically, its the principle of the whole thing. It pisses me off that fuel costs have increased so much. I guess I’m one of a few who is actually miffed enough to change the way I drive. The Mister and I carpool and consolidate trips when possible, but running late this morning put a kink in the best laid plans.

I put the frustration behind me, and the remaining morning was pleasant. After the appointment, we returned home for lunch and to deposit heat sensitive purchases. Lunch was a minor culinary disaster which has resulted in my refusal to eat broiled flounder until after Don Isthmus is nominated for a Nobel Peace prize (Yes, that bad.) When the phone rang I glanced at the caller ID and passed the phone to the Mister. It’s HER. I listened to his side of the conversation as they exchanged pleasantries and irrelevant information about HER upcoming vacation. Finally they got to the real dirt. After he finished the conversation, the Mister filled in the blanks for my benefit.

As per the usual way the conversations have gone with HER recently, I was disgusted, quiet and sullen. He said a few things, and I said a few things. After thinking about a little longer, I told him, “I don’t care for the way she conducts business.” As this type of thing can be easily misinterpreted and blown out of proportion, I made it a point to tell him I was disgusted with the situation and I wasn’t blaming him, I just wasn’t happy about the way things were progressing (or not progressing as the case were), and that was all I was going to say about it, though i intended to fume a little longer.

Empty complaints launched into thin air don’t make me feel better about conflicts. What does it prove with the exception of establishing beyond a shadow of a doubt that some soulless human anomaly has delighted in shitting in my corn flakes. I informed him that I would be quietly seething for the rest of the afternoon, but it wasn’t personal. Being quiet is easy, but being detached when scorned, not so much.

We left made three attempts to leave the house and tend to remaining errands, but seemed unable to pull out of the driveway without first: peeing, making one more phone call, picking up cat food off the floor, checking paint chips, finding the grocery list, getting a bottle of water, and running back in the house for car keys, while simultaneously having an energetic phone conversation with my mother about her dog’s valium prescription.

We stopped at the animal hospital to pick up prescription cat food they ordered for us. After limping to the car sans an arm and a leg with a twenty pound bag of kibble, the Mister was irked.

On the way down the mountain, the He started grumbling about tailgaters, potholes, whether his suv is large enough to accommodate a queen sized matures. Next it was the traffic, the location of the speed limit signs, and finally the inconvenient location of St*rbucks.

After noting the difficulty of entry he decided we should get coffee before continuing. As he pulled into a parking spot, a pedestrian stepped off the curb and stood in the center of the parking place for a moment before walking to his car. The Mister was still grumbling when we went in side.

I turned to the Mister, and said, “SHE did an excellent of wrecking our moods.”

This brought a smile to his face and we exchanged high-fives. It’s reassuring to know it’s possible to be angry and still be on the same team.