When I called the vet’s office after my work shift in 1985, I hadn’t expected heartache.   

“I’m sorry,” the vet’s receptionist said, “but Newt didn’t wake up after the operation.”

Newt had been my pet for over fourteen years. Just a cat.

I was twenty-nine, and though I’d known Newt wouldn’t live forever, I hadn’t expected him to die like this. The operation was supposed to have been routine. But given Newt’s age, he already had one paw in the grave.