My dad likes to talk about four things. Dogs, the Yankees, cars, and money—in order of their safety of mention. He and my mom run a dog rescue, which means in addition to the nine or so animals they own, there are five to ten foster dogs coming in and out at all times. Because of this, you can stay on that first topic for an exceptionally long time. Just don’t ask about Delilah’s hip surgery, or Maggie’s collapsed trachea, because then you spill over into topic number four, and that, of course, is the topic you work actively all evening to avoid. You might notice that the cost of Delilah’s new hip equals precisely the amount of debt you’ve accumulated with your dad, money which he expects back in full—and which reserves him the right to veto any trips you might take, and any bicycles you might consider buying. My mother has a notebook titled, “What Dani Owes.” It’s blue and filling up. What Dani Owes is my dad’s favorite subtopic of his favorite topic, Money. You ask about the Yankees. They lost. You ask about Shelby, Lucy, that new one, the pug/pekingese mix. Delilah. Anyone. Zubi.

“Zubi’s dead,” he says. 

“Of course,” I say. “What I meant was, how are you doing without her?”

“Not well,” he says. “How’s the car? You still running it on no oil?”

“I filled the oil.”

“That’s my car,” he says, as if I’ve forgotten.

“Would you like it back?”

“Keep talking like that and you can walk the 70 miles home,” he says.

If my mother’s not there to step in with, “Did you see that church on the corner? That giant, tacky cross? There should be a town ordinance against that thing,” then we’ll likely crawl along the trenches we built when I was two, or whenever it was I began to speak. I’ll wind up in the corner of whatever room we’re in. His pointer will punctuate every third word against my temple. If he lands on “worthless” I’ll risk what comes next to remind him I’m an investment, worth at least $15,000 by now, which’ll buy his dogs two gastric torsion corrections, six urinary tract reconstructions, and three cataract removals. He’s the Dog Whisperer. He’s never laid a hand on any of them.

* I can’t post this without adding: I love my dad to bits. This is written in the conditional for a reason - in my adult not-living-with-him years, we get along quite well. No more pointing and yelling. As long as we don’t talk about money.