The cat was dying too slow. The vet could end it but the vet was thirty miles away and the cat hated the car.
I called the vet. Could I get it—what he used? Could I pick it up and bring it home and do it to her—by syringe or pill or however one did?
Can’t let you have it, said the vet. He told me the drug he used was the same drug a person will drop in a date’s drink in order to rape the date later. I could go to jail, he said.
Well, I don’t plan on raping anyone, I said.
The vet said, Does your husband own a gun?
He did. At the end, he kept it on the bed next to him when we had sex. But now he was gone, and so was the gun.