One of the puppies, at least, has been spared a sordid career as a professional fighter in the thrall of a moronic athlete. Earlier this evening--just when my sister showed up with a 1991 Volvo station wagon she needed to test-drive (my two sisters' cars recently died, within a week of one another, so the three of us are planning to buy a single car to share among us [mind you, I don't even drive]; since we'll probably put at most a grand total of a 1,000 miles on the thing in any given year, that this Volvo is so old and already has logged 165,000 miles is not too off-putting--especially for $800 [in case the suspense is killing you, the test was a success, and we're buying it])--the puppies' father called me up to ask if I'd be willing to take the less winsome (but more needy) of the two. With great trepidation, I said I would, on the condition that (a) he pay for Casper (whom I'm thinking of renaming Daniel) to be neutered; (b) he make arrangements for the lad to be trained, especially with regard to cats (about more anon); and (c) he raise the height of my existing dog pen to 8 feet, with cubby holes to allow cat entry and egress.
I am very worried about this decision. I don't want my poor cats to run away from home or for them to stay but live out the rest of their lives (they're both ten-and-a-half, so they have years ahead of them) in terror. But I just knew that if I didn't say yes, Casper was doomed. He'd be passed from person to person, growing ever more neurotic with each transfer, and ultimately get hit by a car or sent to the gas chamber.
I am, of course, a sucker. And I may end up even more of one, because, if Copper proves to be too much for the half-livered gal with whom he's living, I'll take him on as well.
The really stupid thing is, here I am, an old lady of almost fifty, and, aside from the cats, the thing that's worrying me the most is how my parents are going to react.
God, I'm pathetic.
