The last thing she asked him to do was bury the cat.
Not much to request. He said he would. Then he was off on sabbatical with his graduate student. Left his nasty little Miata in the garage.
``I'll be back for it in September,'' he said.
A day or two later the cat was back, the dog having unearthed it. He hadn't really buried the cat. Just shoveled dirt over it.
She dug a deeper hole behind the garage and re-interred poor dead Timmy, but next morning there was Timmy on the porch.
Now she was angry. Angry at her smug, uncaring husband, her carrion loving dog and her own miserable life.
She moved the Miata out of the shelter of the garage and into the full sun.
She scooped up the remains of the cat and flung them on the front seat of the Miata and slammed the door.
She filed for divorce and let her lawyer do the bargaining. She put it all from her mind and studied web site design to repress her rage.
Occasionally when she was driving home from work in the Suburban she would allow herself a grim little smile as she imagined her almost ex returning to reclaim his beloved little car.
When it was all over she got half of everything.
``He wants the Suburban,'' the lawyer said, ``they're expecting a baby.
``He says you can keep the Miata.''