Intestate

My mom can be a little quirky.

I was away at college my freshman year when Sunny, the golden retriever I had for fourteen years, died in her sleep. My mom called to tell me. I cried.

Then my mom said, "I took pictures."

"Excuse me?"

"Of Sunny. After she died. Because you loved her so much."

"You took pictures of the dead dog?"

"I didn't know what to do."

I thanked my mom for the sentiment but said I was pretty sure I wouldn't be interested in seeing the pictures once they were developed.

A month or so later I was home from school and saw a stack of newly developed photos on the counter. I began flipping through them. There were Thanksgiving pictures, summer pictures, party pictures, and then there they were: pictures of my late dog Sunny.

It didn't click at first. Well now that's a strange position Sunny's in, I thought. Why would anyone take a picture of her while she was sleeping? Then I remembered.

Oh no, I thought. I stuck the picture at the bottom of the pile. But there was another photo of deceased Sunny from a second angle. Then there was another. And another. Four pictures in total of my dead dog.

Last night my mom took me to a fancy dinner to celebrate my birthday. After we ordered the first course she announced that she thought it was high time I write a will.

Haaaaaaapy birthday.

"What would happen if I got hit by a bus tomorrow?" I asked.

"You'd be intestate. We'd all fight over your apartment and other holdings."

Which got me to thinking about how in a way the word intestate sums up being single in one's thirties. There are different forces pulling at you. Settle down, it's safer. Stay free, it's more fun. Live here, live there. Do this, do that. Throw it up in the air and see where it lands.

I might just remain intestate for a little while. I think it suits me. Then again I might give in to the haranguing of a certain pint-sized Jewess with the same last name as me and write that will.

Choices.