“Why’d you give your cat such a damn fancy name?” The vet barked at me. “Came in here smelling like motor oil from God knows where. ‘Havana’. What the hell.”
I gathered her up and pressed her to my chest. “She is fancy – or will be. We’re all feeding her and loving her. She’ll be a very pretty, fancy cat one day.”
“Nothing that smells like motor oil ever gets fancy, Lola. Mark my words, that’s going to be the runtiest sorriest damn cat.”
He didn’t talk to me like this before I was on a payment plan.