even if you’re a dog person, this story will destroy you

Still working on a few theories as to why The New Yorker has really gotten heavy with the aging/dying parent narrative over the past year, which is why ye, like me, may be tempted to skip over V. S. Naipaul’s The Strangeness of Grief from this week. BUT I AM TELLING YOU NOW: DO NOT SKIP.

As tough as the first third of this essay is, things get extra heartbreaking when the piece takes a sudden turn into the trials and tribulations of pet ownership — specifically, of a cat named Augustus, who is rendered in such specific, endearing terms that even those of us cursed with medical allergies are tempted to consider a life dosed on industrial-grade Benadryl in exchange for a love like this. Just read it. Then email me and tell me how much googling “average pet lifespans” ruined your sleep schedule, too.