Adieu, Garp. We thought you and Freddie Mercury might overlap, but God didn’t want to give me more than I could handle. Or maybe God didn’t want the children to have to feel conflicted when Freddie ate you. If you are inside her now, thank goodness it is only in spirit. We have placed your ashes out of reach.

I am no cat apologist. Particularly before my children became blindingly allergic to them, Helen and Garp were two of my favorite members of the family. My motherly instinct to forgive destructive behaviors extended to them, and I replaced sofas and tolerated cat litter as if I never expected to live in a grown-up’s house. The cats were even allowed to pace around at dinner parties, inevitably jumping into laps or onto broad shoulders, until at last a hairball in a pool of beurre blanc convinced me cats should be heard and not seen.

Freddie’s arrival has, in a different way, returned the house to a nursery scene, with squeaky toys underfoot and a play yard in the family room. She is learning not to bite except when she is feeling playful or greeting a stranger, and if I offer her a very smelly treat, she comes when I call her name.

My daughter told me I have been even happier since she got here, which confirms for me that she (and not Lagavulin, which is what I think I told Facebook,) is my spirit animal*. I’m definitely happy I didn’t have to glue her ears to get them to stand up. Beyond that I don’t think it’s a very good idea to reflect on one’s happiness. That will only give your puppy more time to chew up your Fendi pumps.

*My mother’s spirit animal is a giraffe, but she never got to live with one, so I’m still going to assume hers is a liturgical clown.