Our pet is in love with my husband and I am not into polyamory. I didn't get into this relationship with full knowledge of their relationship, I had to do my own research. It's been years. I'm sole caretaker for Pet because I am also the one who does the bills and cleans the house, buys toilet paper and groceries, makes the appointments with the accountant, the doctor, the friends. I book the flights home, I send the birthday-holiday-thank you cards, I buy the presents and I check the mail. And I research the rescue center out on Long Island, because Pet does not accept love from me and is self-mutilating out of depression again, tearing her skin open where she can reach it. I am Pet's sexual rival and she will not stop biting. The shame of Pet's current state is so great that Pet is hidden from view when people are over. But to give Pet up for adoption is the admission of neglect and other people will judge and not forgive, because other people have pets too, pets they don't want anymore and try to give to their friends, but they are stuck and they are adults.

I have booked the flights. We're going on separate trips to the same places. We leave the house the same day--husband goes in the morning, me in the evening. We aren't getting a sitter because with adequate supplies, Pet can survive on her own for six days. Pet is caged, but husband has forgotten food and water. So I do too.

I fly to Arizona. The first night, I don't think about Pet. The second night, I don't think about Pet. The third night--there are only four days left now--I start thinking about Pet alone, hungry, thirsty, getting crazy. After that, every time I lay me down to sleep, I think about what I will find when I get home. I do not want to go home. I have murdered the other woman and now I have to clean up after myself. Everyone knows that disposing of the body is the hardest part.

I buy myself an extra day by missing my flight home. Now it's tomorrow's red-eye leaving Phoenix at midnight. Miriam takes me to the bar beforehand. I have four Four Roses. I have a beer. For the first time in my life, I am boarding a plane really, really drunk. I find my seat on the aisle and there is an attractive Asian man dozing against the window on the inside. His face is turned away from me against the glass, but he's really beautiful. I can tell.

Cute guy is from Flushing. He tells me about his seven brothers and their law practice. He is not popular with his parents; he is an unemployed Reiki therapist run away to the West Coast. He tells me the story of the animals of the Chinese zodiac, why they follow each other in the order they do. I tell him nothing. I, still drunk, am making bad drunken conversation, mostly lies, buying time away from my anxiety. He tells me that my voice in the dark is sexy, it's husky from all the smoke he smells on my clothes and he can't see my face and it's exciting. I laugh and wake up somebody's baby. I'm nervous because I've started something I can't get up and walk away from--this anxiety conflates with Pet anxiety and I'm suddenly miserable. I say I need to sleep. I wake up an hour later. Ken is holding my hand. My head has lolled onto his shoulder. I'm scared and titillated. We land. I can't shake him because my luggage is last off the belt. He's going to Flushing, I'm going to Flushing, we're definitely getting breakfast, he's buying. I am hung over and hideous, dried out from the plane, not sharp enough for evasive action. I'm also relieved I've bought another hour.

We get Nepalese. I eat spicy fried tofu and turn green. Only then does he release me from whatever drunken tacit promise I made on Southwest. I get in my building, methodically check the mail, drag the luggage into the elevator. I am hoping I've lost my keys. I have not.

Inside the apartment, it's silent. Normally, Pet would be making all kind of ruckus. I have to pee pretty bad. Passing the kitchen on my way to the bathroom, I note the open cage door. Well then. I heave myself onto the toilet. I sit there, weighing my options, thinking about all the places I'll have to look for the body. Under the couch. Under the bed. Behind everything. Or worse, death throes will have destroyed the rug in the living room. Don't dying things shit and convulse and rattle? I look down and to the left of the toilet. The plastic box of wet wipes has been chewed through and the wipes devoured. Motion. I look up. Pet is dragging herself toward me, a look of supplication in her tiny eye. 

I am horribly, horribly relieved, horribly guilty, horrible, horrible, horrible. I haven't killed anyone.

***

I've booked the flights. We're going home for Passover. Before we leave, I ask him who's going to watch Pet this time, since we're staying for nine days. Jessie will watch Pet; she's a new friend in the neighborhood. Mom asks when we get in who's watching Pet. Husband ignores her question and I get a strange feeling. The next day, he mentions that he didn't have time to get keys to Jessie, we have to overnight them. Of course he didn't. That would require forethought and organization. Every day that follows, I remind him we have to go to FedEx, and every day, we don't.

I sleep soundly in Vancouver. I tell Mom what's going on. She says leave it be. Her position is that I should poison Pet.

Sunday night. At the baggage claim, I bring up the horrors in store, trying to strategize. Husband is sure Pet is fine. Pet has been left with food and water for long periods before. He assumes we left ample supplies in the cage, while I know this is not the case. I insist that he check the mail, methodically, to give me time to enter the apartment, survey the scene and prevent him from seeing anything too awful. He bucks. We enter the apartment together and he reads the silence. Then he grabs my keys and runs for the mailbox.

I don the gloves and get her in a garbage bag and into the freezer. He is overcome when he returns, sobbing on the floor in the hall, inconsolable. I crouch and hug until my legs fall asleep. Later, I am just a little afraid he will drown himself in the bath. He likes to snorkel in there, but he's left the mask and nose plug in the hall. I can't take it so I go in and sit on the toilet. He's not even underwater. He begs me to tell him he's not a bad person. I struggle not to reveal my delight.

Vera Bradley is a poet and translator living in Queens, NY. She can be reached at this address.