Author: Angela Largent

We were sitting in a hotel room in Garden City, Kansas, when my mom noticed the weird bump on my dog’s leg. Walter was sprawled on the bed next to me, snoring, and barely stirred while we examined the bump. It was an angry pink, about half the size of a penny, and on the inside of his foreleg a few inches above his paw. I had no idea how long it had been there.

I tried not to panic, but my mind immediately leapt to cancer. And it had to be a fast-growing kind, or I would have noticed the spot before then.

When I was ten years old, my mom and I were shopping at the mall one evening. We stopped into the pet store to look at the animals before we left for home. There was a handsome ginger tabby kitten in one of the cages. I asked if we could buy him, like I always…

Read More »

I stood at the patio doors, gazing at the compost heap in the backyard and trying to ignore my husband in the kitchen, as I waited to let the dog back in. I rubbed my twitchy eyelid and took a deep breath; in through the nose, out through the mouth. This was turning out to be one heck of a day.

Dust motes floated in the air, tickling my allergies. The janitors hadn’t cleaned this old file room in years. Why bother, when no one ever came in here anymore? Except me, because my boss just had to have an invoice from 2013. As I pinched my nose to prevent a sneeze, I fantasized handing him an IRS audit notice and watching him break out in hives.

“Can’t you shut that cat up?” Veronica asked.

Gertie was winding herself around my ankles, yowling. I picked her up and she started purring.

“Are you finally hungry?” I crooned. “Poor kitty. Let me get you some food.”

Gertie hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. We had arrived at the cabin last night, and she had gone directly from the carrier to hide under the bed. She had spent the morning cautiously exploring the space and was finally starting to settle in.

I got out a bowl and looked around for the bag of dry cat food.

“Just a few more questions and you’ll be out of the hot seat!” the interviewer said.

I bet she used that line in every interview. She was being courteous, but without much enthusiasm. I wondered how many people she had interviewed today.

I smiled at her. My face was starting to hurt from all the smiling. The chair had made a funny noise the last time I moved, so I was holding myself stiffly, but trying to look relaxed.

Relaxed but with excellent posture, that is. My leg muscles were beginning to tremble.

When I was in high school, I drove a sky blue Chevy Citation. The paint was peeling in places, but my dad assured me we could fix it. We sanded each of the spots smooth, wiped them clean with a damp cloth and sprayed on primer. While it was drying, we went to the auto parts store to get model-specific paint to match my car.

When we returned, we found that the paint all around the edges of the primer spots had curled into little ruffles.

My dad said, “Huh.”

Why did I get a dog?

As I drove the streets of my neighborhood, scanning yards, I wondered how far Walter could have gotten by now. He could have gone down any of these side streets. My heart lurched. What if he changed directions and went the other way, toward the busy street?

The neighborhood cats love my yard. I don’t know why. Every time I look out the window there are at least two cats out there, perched on a fencepost or skulking through the tall weeds behind the shed. When I open the back door, they look at me like I’m the intruder. They love the unused flower beds best of all. I think cats come from miles around to shit in my flower beds. I can imagine their conversations. “It’s the best outdoor litter box you’ve ever seen. Just the right ratio of sand to mulch. Let me give you directions.”

After the sun sets, my backyard turns into a kitty night club. I couldn’t guess how many kittens have been conceived back there. Judging from the amount of yowling, hundreds. At least.