Rosemary shoved the plump, orange cat off one of the pillows. He hissed and took a swipe at her. “Just try it,” she said. She picked him up and dropped him onto the floor. She’d been with Fuddy for almost three years now, ever since that Boston teaching stint. Aside from Charlie, this was the longest live-in relationship of her adult life. The woman from whom she’d been subletting the Boston apartment had called her in May of that year—two weeks before she was due to return from wherever she’d been—and told Rosemary she’d suddenly developed an allergy to cats, and that if Rosemary didn’t agree to take Fuddy with her when she moved out, he would most likely have to be “put down.”

“I’ve had him for eight years,” the woman had said, “and I’d just hate to have to do that to him.”

Rosemary didn’t mind being manipulated as long as the person was clever about it—had a plan they’d thought through and used a shred of imagination. This gal was making so little effort, it was insulting. Who developed allergies after eight years of living with an animal?

“Don’t worry about Fuddy,” Rosemary had told the woman.

“You’ll take him?”

“I’ll kill him.”

She and the cat were a good couple. They respected each other’s turf and never gave in to cuddly mawkishness. She didn’t like to think that she’d turned into one of those cat people she loathed—smelling of kitty litter and covered with clumps of fur—but even if she had, it was her little secret. The only visitors she had these days were a couple of students she’d talked into doing her housecleaning once a week, and they were too young and too eager to boost their grades to notice anything.