Brooke’s six-pound, shivering Pomeranian, Cartier, was perched imperiously inside a miniature gray luxury stroller. The animal was adorned in a cashmere ruby-red sweater and four meticulously laced, tiny waterproof boots.
I shifted my weight and looked my sister dead in the eye. “I am standing in absolute solidarity with Lucy on this matter.”
“Cartier suffers from severe hardwood-induced anxiety,” Brooke snapped. “He’s highly sensitive.”
“He is a canine, Brooke. He descended from wolves.”
“He is sensitive!”
“Apparently, so are my children,” I countered, my voice dropping an octave. “Yet, remarkably, only the dog has been provided with a private vehicular transport system inside the living room.”
Mom stepped forward, rubbing her temples as if warding off an impending migraine. “Please, it is my birthday. Can we just have one evening where we do not engage in combat?”
“I am not fighting,” I said. I reached down and hoisted Lucy’s floral backpack onto my shoulder. “I am simply departing.”
