A New Life in Modern Family

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Chapter 108: Ghost Protocol

Jon's Perspective

After what I can only describe as the Great Vet Appointment of the Century— I genuinely thought the worst was behind us. Ghost had endured his shots with a mix of stoicism and passive-aggressive growling. Gloria, as expected, had made a dramatic performance of the entire ordeal, complete with gasps, monologues, and at least two fainting spells that required zero medical attention. And me? Somehow, against all odds, I made it through the chaos without developing a visible nervous tic or driving my car into oncoming traffic.

So, with the air heavy from tension and the scent of antiseptic still lingering in my nose, I did what any emotionally exhausted human would do—I listened to Gloria and bribed everyone with sugar. Namely, I drove us to Gloria's favorite pastry shop. It was either that or a bar, and only one of those options served guava turnovers.

Ghost sat contentedly in the back seat, nibbling at a vet-issued tuna-flavored treat I'd handed him in a desperate attempt at reconciliation. His purring was intermittent, almost strategic—as if he were deciding whether to forgive me or plot a slow, claw-filled revenge. I couldn't tell. He was either comforted or calculating. Gloria, on the other hand, sat beside me fanning herself dramatically with an old grocery receipt, looking like a woman who'd just testified in a high-stakes criminal trial.

Ten minutes and one slightly reckless left turn later, we were parked in front of Pan Dulce Palace, an establishment so colorful it looked like a piñata had exploded and someone decided to sell baked goods inside the wreckage. Gloria marched in like she was entering a sacred temple, and emerged five minutes later with a paper bag filled with what could only be described as pure sugar-laced chaos. She ordered three pastries for herself: one delicate guava turnover, one cream-stuffed horn that looked like a pastry weapon, and something that defied pronunciation and sparkled like a disco ball at a unicorn wedding.

I, being the cautious soul that I am, opted for a plain croissant. Simple. Predictable. Betrayal-free. I've been burned by glittery food before. Never again.

We found a shaded bench outside, where Ghost's carrier rested neatly at Gloria's feet. I sat beside her and unwrapped my croissant, enjoying the brief, blissful silence that followed. I took a bite. Then another. The buttery flakes melted on my tongue, and for the first time all day, I felt something dangerously close to peace.

It lasted exactly three bites.

"He didn't even say goodbye," Gloria muttered suddenly, eyes still on her shimmering pastry.

I paused, mid-chew. "Sorry, what?"

"The vet," she clarified with a heavy sigh. "He just… stuck Ghost with the needle and moved on. Like Ghost was some stray animal on the street. He didn't even say he was proud of him. Or apologize for the pain."

I stared at her, then down at Ghost, who was curled up contentedly in his carrier, licking tuna from his whiskers. "He's a vet, Gloria. Not a therapist."

She shot me a look so sharp it could've sliced through puff pastry. "Ghost is very sensitive, Jon. That man poked him like he was a rug. Like he had no soul."

I opened my mouth to argue, to bring logic into the conversation, but then Ghost purred—just once, but with precision timing. It was subtle, but it felt almost… opinionated. Like he was siding with her.

"I think," Gloria said, dusting powdered sugar from her lap with solemn purpose, "we need a second opinion."

"From who?"

"A healer. Someone who actually understands the emotional frequency of animals."

I blinked. "You mean… a vet?"

"No," she said, voice heavy with disappointment. "A real expert."

Which is how, despite every rational fiber of my being screaming "no," I found myself in a series of increasingly surreal encounters, all under the noble pretense of emotional support for a cat.

Forty Minutes Later — 'Mystic Paws'

We entered a cramped little storefront wedged tightly between a laundromat and a place that offered both tattoos and questionable piercings. The sign above the door read Mystic Paws: Pet Readings & Energy Realignments. The moment we stepped inside, we were hit with a thick wall of incense that smelled like a mix of sage, expired patchouli, and deep, unresolved emotional baggage.

Shantara Moon, the proprietor, sat cross-legged behind a beaded curtain. She wore what looked like six scarves, all fighting for dominance, and enough rings to make a wind chime jealous. Her eyes were heavily lined, her nails painted silver, and her aura—according to Gloria—was "indigo rising."

Ghost stared at her from inside his carrier like she was a glitch in the simulation.

Shantara closed her eyes slowly, placed her bejeweled hands near Ghost's carrier without touching it, and murmured, "I sense he's a warrior spirit. But also… a poet. A feline of duality."

Gloria inhaled like she'd just received divine confirmation that Ghost was the reincarnation of Pablo Neruda.

I stared at the clock, calculating how long it would take for this woman to levitate.

An Hour Later — Holistic Pet Wellness Center

Somehow, things escalated. We were now sitting in a pastel-lavender yurt in someone's backyard that probably wasn't zoned for commercial use. A man named Leaf—shirtless, barefoot, and beaded—stood in front of us pouring essential oils into a bowl of quinoa like he was summoning a spirit. "This is for balance," he intoned solemnly, handing the bowl to Ghost.

Ghost knocked it over with his paw and then, almost insultingly, began grooming himself.

I nearly applauded.

Gloria, however, nodded in reverence. "He likes the energy here," she whispered.

"I like the energy at home," I whispered back, but no one was listening.

Two Hours Later — Back in the Car

At long last, we were done. The sun was starting to dip toward the horizon, and I was spiritually, emotionally, and mentally bankrupt. Ghost had finally surrendered to a nap, curled up in his carrier like he hadn't just been the subject of multiple ritualistic interventions. Gloria looked unusually peaceful, maybe due to spiritual enlightenment—or quinoa fumes.

As I pulled into our driveway, the silence in the car felt sacred. I turned off the engine and just sat there, trying to remember a time when my life was normal.

As we stepped out, Gloria reached for my arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Thank you, Jon. Not many boys would do all this for a kitten."

I managed a weary smile. "Well… he's not just a kitten. He's my kitten."

Gloria nodded, her eyes soft and warm with genuine affection.

Then, with the perfect timing of a woman who knows exactly how to push a man to the brink, she said, "Tomorrow, I know a place that does feline acupuncture."

I didn't even respond. I just opened the front door and shouted into the house: "Jay! Tag, you're it!"