What's Wrong with Dog Hair, Anyway?

My mother has always had great timing. She's caught me having sex in her basement when I was 16. She's walked in on me smoking in my bedroom. She even caught me and my best friend sneaking back IN the house after being out drinking all night.  This time, I guess, I should thank her. I had called her and asked her to bring her van over so I would only have to make one trip with all of my things. 

With the gun to my head, and my sweet furry friend, Tammy, laying by my legs, my mother walked in the front door. Her screams and cries were enough to make me stop what I was doing, not turning around to see her, just freezing. She ran over to me and wrestled the gun from my hand, ripping my shirt she was so violent in her maneuver. 

I was embarrassed and ashamed, but more than that I was done. I had no place to go, I had nothing to live for, and I might not even have my dog, as my mother told me I had to get rid of her. My mom (and sperm donor) were allowing me to move back in with them for a while, but the rule was no pets. My dog had been with me for everything, and was my only friend in the world. There was no way I was going anywhere without her. I would just as soon live on the street than live without her. 

I planted my ass on the couch, with my dog, and  refused to move. Either Tammy was coming with me, or I wasn't coming. I suppose my mother thought I had been through enough for one day, you know, with me trying to blow my brains out and all, so she agreed that my companion could come, too.