“We can’t make it,” I told Mom between sobs. “Tell them we’re sorry.”
She snorted, then hung up.
What sort of mother finds the death of her daughter’s pet amusing?
Ordinarily, I’d have been miserable at her words. But that day, something in me heaved.
That was the day when she, with all her disapproval and derision, ceased to matter.
We buried Oreo in the backyard. Then, we baked a paw-shaped cake for the strays.
They paid their condolences in happy woofs. We felt, in turns, much heavier, much lighter.