When I was a child, my family experienced a succession of four pet dogs. Smokey, the black mongrel, got hit by a car. Tippy, the aggressive German shepherd mix we named after a taco restaurant, went to live with a nice family on a farm. Toby, who slept every night with her head on my pillow, was also hit by a car. Then came Zoe, the gentle husky with webbed feet, who died of old age at seventeen years. As my four brothers and I grew up and moved out of the house, my mother, who flourished under chaos, replaced each of us with additional hound, until she presided over a ferocious pack that terrorized the neighborhood and pooped indiscriminately throughout my parents' empty nest.

I am a cat person.