There is an unmistakable tone to the voice of someone who is about to share what I’ve come to call a “Sad Animal Story”. It’s regretful, a little hushed, and has a certain inexorable quality to it, as if it cannot be helped. “No. Nope. Stop. That’s an SAS, isn’t it?” I’ll warn my husband, as he forgets who he’s talking to and attempts to begin one. I can spot an SAS at twenty paces, often on the first, plaintive, drawn-out syllable.
