She had a point. I had bought Puss’ remains and shipped them from New England to Florida 20 years ago. After investing $20,000 and hundreds of hours of child labor, I’d gotten her to better than new. Six years later, my labor force migrated to college, and in a holiday funk, I sold her to a pharmacist in New England. Six years ago, in a grape-fueled bout of lust, I bought her back and blew another $20,000 on her rehabilitation.