I trap the skinny black cat under my left arm on the kitchen counter. He is not thrilled, but he’s a lover, not a fighter. He knows the drill. I rub a squirt of steroid cream into his ear and release him to a day of wrestling with his tuxedo brother and drowning tiny catnip-stuffed fish toys in Messi’s water bowl.

His Darth Vader breathing, combined with wheezing, sneezing, and ropes of mucous whipped onto walls and furniture, had stumped our vet.

Our cat needed a CAT scan, she told us. At a fancy vet office.

“Our vet thinks he needs a CAT scan,” I tell Mihailo. “A CAT SCAN, HA.”

Mihailo loves this cat, but our household is also a revolving door when it comes to money. Six children, five animals, one mother in memory care, one ex-wife. There is a fresh stack of bills on the kitchen island, with shocking sums that would have stopped my heart back in my Massachusetts single-mom days.