When we last left the hapless me, my daughter was home after her college campus shut down. 

And my dog had diarrhea. 

Now, my dog, Pete, had just been to the vet for a check-up. They assured me Pete living another three years — through my younger child’s freshman year of college — was an attainable goal. 

Why through freshman year? 

If Pete goes, um, to Marion’s bar in Nepal before that kid leaves for college, I will have to assuage his grief with another pet. 

Let me tell you something. 

We have had two dogs, two cats, two hamsters, two crayfish, two hermit crabs, one guinea pig, and enough goldfish to rival “The Trouble with Tribbles.” 

All but the hermit crabs and goldfish were rescues.  

I have done my bit for king and country. 

I will have no more husbands, children, or pets. 

And I don’t want to talk about how I came to rescue two crayfish. 

Or about the wee hours of the morning when one escaped and I stumbled across him eating the cat’s food. 

Now, Pete can’t go to Marion’s bar in Nepal during freshman year of college, either. 

C’mon. Can you imagine the trauma? You leave home and your dog dies? Is this a Disney movie? 

I was thrilled when the vet said Pete is in peak condition. 

Except for the protein in his urine. 

And his teeth are a mess — remember how he lived outside? — so he needs surgery to clean his teeth. 

And maybe pull a few. 

When you’re already paying tuition, telling your husband the dog needs a couple thousand dollars’ worth of surgery, well. 

Someone else in my house might say no more spouses, kids, or pets. 

When, a week after his check-up, Pete developed that diarrhea, I rushed him back to the vet. 

Two hundred dollars later, I walked out with three prescriptions for Pete’s sensitive belly. 

I hadn’t even told my husband about the thousands for surgery yet. 

Or the $400 it took to find out about the surgery. 

But Pete perked up on the medication, the college announced its reopening for the following week, and things were looking like they might get back to normal. 

That’s when I received the text. 

My son has a friend, a dear, dear friend — since they were eight years old. Friendships like that — the kind where you know which cupboard has the drinking glasses and which car has the tricky window — they’re special. 

So when that kid’s parents had an emergency, and that kid needed to stay over on a school night, the answer was never anything but “of course.” 

The boys had a physics project to complete, and that friend was about to have his first job interview. 

So we bought dominoes for the physics project, McDonald’s for dinner, and talked about the interview. I lobbed a few sample interview questions. My son helped him practice his handshake. 

And that night, while my kids and surrogate kid slept, Pete’s diarrhea returned. 

After a sleepless night, my husband found me in the kitchen, gulping black tea. 

“We’re going backward!” I laughed. “A month ago, we were down to one kid. Now we have three kids and a sick dog!”  

“Pete,” my husband said, “is Latin for ‘no sleep, no sex.’” 

Sometimes, I’d like to peek inside his brain, see where he gets this stuff. 

Now, while Pete was expelling diarrhea at three o’clock in the morning, I slipped into the yard and collected a sample. 

I also had a sample of non-diarrhea poop for routine testing. 

When morning brought daylight, I schlepped the two boys and the two poop samples into my car. I planned to leave the samples with Pete’s vet after I got the boys to school.  

Driving around all morning with poop in my car — I don’t have words. I’d almost rather tell you how I came to rescue two crayfish. 

I told the vet staff I thought Pete was maybe getting sick from the caribou. 

The caribou. 

My husband brought it home from Alaska. Pete, a retired hunting dog, is no stranger to game meat. 

But the caribou, apparently, was a bridge too far. 

When the vet staff told the vet about the caribou, she laughed. 

And prescribed an antibiotic. 

Today, I am staring November in the face. My daughter is back at college, Pete is on the mend, and the physics project is done. 

I mean, it’s still thumb-tacked to my wall. But it’s done. 

I’m back down to one kid, planning his launch. 

And kind of missing a car full of kids.  

And, you know, poop. 

The Doobie Brothers might say, “Mama, don’t you ask me why. Whoa, listen to the music.”  

Listen to the music.  

That’s probably better than a car full of poop.