I looked into the dog’s cloudy eyes in the picture.

Two summers ago I’d paid six hundred dollars for his dental cleaning.

Since he turned eight, I’d paid eighty dollars every month for his joint supplements and heartworm pills.

My thumb hung over the screen, tempted to type back and ask whether Buster had eaten his dinner.

Before I could touch the keyboard, another text appeared right under the photo.

“Don’t forget the mortgage transfer goes through on Friday, the first of the month,” my mother wrote.