When I was six years old, I owned a bright pink rabbit’s foot on a little gold-colored chain. I reverently rubbed my fingers along its length, stopping to feel the hard little nails embedded in the tip. It never occurred to me that it was an actual rabbit’s foot. I adored fur and wanted to touch it at any and every opportunity. My nine-year-old sister, Janet, felt the same way.

A few days before my brother Buzz’s Bar Mitzvah, we accompanied our parents to a department store, where they were buying some extra wine glasses. “You can walk around on your own if you promise to meet us back here in exactly 15 minutes,” my father said. 

My mother touched Janet’s wristwatch and said, “It’s 10 minutes after two now. When will you be back here?” she asked. 

Janet rolled her eyes. “Oh, Mommy, I’m not a baby. At 25 minutes after two.” 

“Okay, girls, have fun,” my father said as he strolled down an aisle lined with glassware. My sister took my hand in hers and led me off.

“Not so tight,” I said irritably. 

“I have to hold your hand. Pretend you’re my baby and I’m taking you shopping,” she instructed. 

“OK, Mommy,” I cooed, brightening. 

Janet and I took the escalator up one floor where we spotted the coveted fur coats. Janet pulled me toward them as I felt the excitement mounting. “Now, I’ll tell you which ones you can touch and which you can’t,” Janet said. We passed two uninteresting shorthaired coats. The first acceptable fur was a thick blue-black mink, and Janet ran her hand slowly down the length of one sleeve. “Now you can pet it,” she said, still holding my hand in hers. 

“I wanna do it myself,” I insisted, yanking my hand free. 

“If I let you do it on your own, you still have to wait until I tell you which ones you can touch, OK?” I begrudgingly agreed. 

We stopped at four or five furs and stroked them methodically. Then Janet walked purposefully toward a longhaired rabbit coat, all white and silky-looking. As I walked silently behind her, I let my hand trail along the sleeves of the coats we passed. I felt almost faint with pleasure. When Janet stopped in front of the rabbit fur, I jerked my hand away from the coat I was petting. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she murmured. “When can we touch it?” I asked. “I’m going to touch it once by myself,” she answered. I made a face as she stroked the front of the coat. “Then I’ll count to three and we’ll touch it together,” she added, her eyes half-closed in ecstasy. She slowly counted, “one, one-and-a-half, two, two-and-a-half…” 

Impatiently, I pushed my face past her outstretched hand and buried my head deep in the coat. 

Suddenly, I felt two hands clamping my shoulders and my head was pulled backward away from the warmth of the fur. Janet and I stared at each other. I narrowed my eyes and looked menacingly at her, my hands forming two fists. I was surprised to see her angry face contort into a look of fear when the reason became apparent. “It is now almost three o’clock,” my father said in a frighteningly low voice that was being pushed through gritted teeth. I rolled my eyes upward and looked into his angry face. “Your mother and I have been looking for the two of you for the past half hour. Didn’t we agree you’d meet us at a certain time?” My sister and I nodded and were still bobbing our heads and apologizing when my mother said, “I should’ve known you’d be here.” My parents turned and headed for the escalator. Janet put her mouth close to my ear and whispered, “There’ll be a lot of fur at the Bar Mitzvah.” 

Following the Bar Mitzvah service, my parent’s friends and colleagues began arriving at our house. “Let’s help with the coats,” Janet said, excited. We ran downstairs just as our pediatrician, Dr. Adler, and his wife Marilyn were opening the front door. Marilyn was wearing a beaver stole around her shoulders, and Janet was beside herself trying to take it from her. “We’re in charge of the coats,” I explained as I went to retrieve a short mink from the dangling arm of another of my parent’s friends.

We piled the coats onto my parent’s bed and returned for more. Naturally, the cloth coats were conveniently stashed at the bottom of the pile. When we had eight or nine furs we quietly closed the door to my parent’s bedroom, took off our shoes, and threw ourselves head first into the soft stack of pelts, our butts waving in the air. We were in this compromising position when my father surprised us, entering the bedroom with two coats slung over his arm. “What do the two of you think you are doing?” he boomed. “Get off the guests’ coats, will you?” Then suddenly and unexpectedly he softened. Shaking his head he said, “I guess you can pet them if you want, but don’t lie on top of them. And get something to eat first. There’s a whole cold poached salmon and sweet-and-sour meatballs out there.” And with that he closed the bedroom door. 

“Meatballs!” Janet shrieked. She took my hand and we ran from the room, leaving the glorious pile of furs momentarily behind.