Bring-your-daughter-to-work day was always slightly awkward at the morgue. Fortunately, my baby didn’t ask too many questions. She preferred to lick herself and mew incessantly. But, that’s to be expected of a drop-dead-gorgeous Siamese. That’s right, I’m talking about Precious. When the stork first dropped her off at Mama’s house, I was pleased as plumbs. Precious lowered my blood pressure, extended my life expectancy, and all she wanted in return was a private box for her lady-business. What more could a single mother ask for? Well, maybe that she get her own goddamn Meow Mix out of the pantry every once in a while, instead of interrupting me during Regis. But, that’s neither here nor there. I counted my blessings. Whether at home or at work, I considered myself lucky to have a gal-pal and a daughter rolled into one adorable, silent, obedient ball of fur. I thought I had it easy. And then cat-puberty reared its ugly head.

Judging by the way my Precious started dressing, she must have been “in” some serious “heat” during her freshman year of Cat Obedience School. You’d think it was Fourth of July all year ’round judging by her get-up. Middle of December, and she’d still refuse to wear that darling knitted sweater and galoshes set I’d bought her. Instead, that ingrate would parade the neighborhood streets bare-assed, literally calling to mate. My puss in boots had turned into a regular huss in heels, as long as we’re being honest.

I can’t say I was surprised when the gentlefeline callers started showing up at our stoop. They weren’t allowed under my roof, so Precious started coming home late, hanging out with the strays. Getting in all sorts of garbage, factually speaking. One night, after working the late shift at the freezer farm, as we call it in the biz, I walked into my living room to find Precious and some overfed mouser passed out on the bear rug. Apparently the milk-dish I’d left out for her mid-day treat had “somehow” turned into a bowl of white-Russian. “Ship up, or shape out,” I bellowed at my not-so-Precious-anymore. “Get out of my face, Mom! You’re always bossing me!” she snapped right back.

I thought that was the last I’d seen of Precious. She pranced out of the house in a huff that night and never looked back. I was a real Mopey Margaret afterwards. So, as a little pick-me-up my colleagues down at the ’orgue insisted they pick up the tab for an all-day shopping spree at Walgreen’s. “What the hell, Virginia,” I asked myself. “Why not let loose a little?” So we did. We tried on different perfumes, teased each other with hilarious birthday card greetings, made a few dirty jokes in the “feminine care” aisle, and raised heck flirting with the pharmacist on duty. Who knew us undertakers could under take such fun, eh?

And so, touched by the loyalty of my contemporaries, I finally felt my sorrows beginning to melt away. I felt that I could look toward the future again. And what better way to look toward the future than to flip through an inspirational calendar? Of course, I’d have to purchase one first. “Put it on my tab!” I laughed—my hand en route to the first Charlie Brown and Snoopy-themed monthly that I could get my ganders on. Then, out of the corner of my eye: horror of all horrors. “Mother of God, no . . . ” I pleaded. “Don’t let that be my Precious!”

When I finally came to, my friends were huddled about me, flipping through the very calender that had had me seeing stars: “Twelve Full Months of Docile Domestics.” Sure as sugar, Precious was the pin-up girl. There she was on the cover. Naked. In the sweet embrace of a poodle. “Holy Saint Francis,” I wept. “That’s my baby.”

“Well, it’s your own damn fault. Giving your daughter a name like Precious . . . ” my so-called friend replied.