My Best Friends Have Hairy Legs Read Online Free PDF Page A

Oink.” I never saw her again.
    The following year I moved to California with my fiancée. Bandit was now ten years old, and Brandy nine. The long flight from Florida to California seemed to have had a negative affect on Brandy and she began to have behavior issues—hiding under the bed whenever I wasn’t home and snapping at anyone who tried to get her to come out. She was using the bathroom in the house, and her eyes had quickly clouded over with cataracts. She was miserable most of the time, only wagging her tail when she heard my voice. I had to have her put to sleep just three months after we arrived. I was heartbroken. My mother, step-father and sister had moved to Scotland the previous summer and when mom’s father—my grandfather—died just before Thanksgiving I had to call and give her the news. Still reeling from that loss and the realization that my move to California was not a good decision, when I had to have Brandy put down I felt like I had lost my only friend. I was overwhelmed with grief for months.
    That marriage was short lived. He had an affinity for a white powered substance that I did not share. I had tried to call the wedding off but my Dad and his new wife made it clear that I was not welcome in what was now “her” home, and so without a job, family or friends in California, I married him believing (naïvely) that he would change. After a year of living in a shared home with four of his friends (all single males) I was tired of the secretive “male bonding” trips out of town, the constant parties, alcohol, and his use of the white powder. I spent my first Thanksgiving in California without him, cooking a turkey for one of his friends, practically a stranger to me, while “the guys” went on a “no girls allowed” ski trip to Mammoth. After our divorce one of his friends told me that they weren’t necessarily “no girls allowed” trips—just not me or any of their girlfriends since there were “other” women they would hope to meet on the trips. I was expected to be a cook and clean-up crew for their frequent parties—parties that would start Friday after work and often not end until Sunday evening. Saturday mornings I was expected to fix breakfast for whoever had slept on sofas, floors, or patio furniture. Clean the house and prepare food for the next round. Friday and Saturday nights I would mingle and socialize until midnight, then lock myself in our bedroom watching old black and white horror movies until I fell asleep. My husband never knocked to come in. In the beginning I sometimes went looking for him as I was making my way to the bedroom, but the night I found him naked in the Jacuzzi with several other (also naked) people I didn’t know, I stopped. I wasn’t a prude, but the drug seemed to give him a side of his personality that I didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. I filed for a divorce on our first anniversary. I was 25. Not surprisingly the first week I spent in my new apartment, he wanted to know if I would still do his laundry for him. I’ll let you guess what I said since I’d like this to still be an PG-13 rated book and don’t want to push the literary censor’s buttons but I think it is safe to say that I didn’t go into the laundry washing business.
    When I moved into my apartment, I still had Bandit, but now also another kitten—Jazzmin. She was a very sweet cat and both she and Bandit got along well. Unfortunately, Bandit’s health started to decline and less than four months after my divorce, I had to have her put to sleep. When I started dating again, Jazz didn’t really care for my boyfriend, Will, very much. Obviously she was better at sensing a person’s character than I was. I should have taken lessons from her. She would act as if she was finally going to accept him and would walk over as if to rub against his leg, and when he would reach down to pet her, she would flick her tail at him and move just out of reach. We married just over a