My mother was faced with a decision, either get rid of her morbidly obese, mentally retarded dog who she couldn’t stop from shitting on the neighbor’s lawn, or be evicted from her apartment.

It took my mother several tearful days to come to her senses, but she eventually chose her home over her pet.

The twist ending came when it was revealed who she was handing her dog over to.

Rather than the Humane Society or some random, anonymous, Classified Ad responder, Honey’s new daddy was Steve, my mother’s ex-husband, my brother’s dad, my step-father.

Despite the fact that I hadn’t seen or talked to the man in nearly twenty years, my mother, out of necessity, remained in somewhat frequent contact with him, and now, thanks to their newfound joint custody of a dog, they were actually getting along rather well.

Better even, perhaps, than when they were married.

“My God,” I gasped, “what if they get back together? I don’t think I could handle that.”

“Stranger things have happened,” KT replied after I finished summarizing my mother’s latest marathon telephone confessional.

When I finally got up the nerve to actually ask my mother about the possibility of her and Steve reuniting, she was quick to laugh it off.

“Gross!” she replied. “Have you seen him lately?”

And then she informed me that they were getting together for lunch the very next day, to talk about Honey, at Taco John’s.

“He offered to pay,” she added.

“So, then what?” I sheepishly asked, and she shrugged off my inquiry with a fleeting, “Who knows?”

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