On the day you must euthanize your daughter’s cat, all your jokes turn to ashes in your mouth, like the ashes they’ll send in that decorative box that is meant to hold her memories. The kids are home from school for Columbus Day, so you hide your tears in the bathroom, even as you wonder why the idea that men are not supposed to cry is so hard to unlearn. You don’t cry for the cat, but for your daughter, and for the boy you were who had dogs he loved. Steeling yourself, you emerge, and start searching for the cat carrier that you won’t need after today. It’s almost time to go.