The Unseemly Demise of My Sister’s Cat

While there’s very little glory in the gory details of this sordid tale that ends in catastrophe, my conscience continues to plague me until I have let most of the known world know what happened on that bloody day. I’m not big on confession [even during Lent], but I’m scared that purgatory and/or hell itself will literally have kitty litter all over the place. And no more catnaps!

On good days, I am indifferent towards most cats because a childhood experience when I was traumatized by several domestic feline terrorist on the overloaded dining room table of an elderly relative’s Sunday dinner. These untoward creatures would saunter silently amid the platters and plates filled with southern culinary delights and stare at me in particular. My appetite left the room, and I soon followed.

Fast forward to my final years at college when I made a dash home in my car to collect a few things I had forgotten on my most recent trip.  It was mid-morning and no one was at home.  My parents were at work and my twelve-year younger sister, Katherine, was at school.

Rather than dawdle or dilly-dally, I threw my stuff in the car and began backing out the driveway…until I felt a thud under my wheel.  Looking under the car, I discovered to my dismay that Katherine’s white cat had accidently crawled under the car and was now squashed, it’s white fur red with blood.  I knew that she loved this cat and would be wrought with despair were I to leave it there for her to discover that an accident of unknown origin had taken all the lives left for this poor puss.  Best to remove the evidence.

I grabbed a shovel and placed the deceased animal in a brown paper grocery bag and carried it to a nearby town creek for disposal, if not a proper burial.  I let the cat out of the bag to flow freely and graciously into some murky oblivion down the creek.   But I got left holding the bag of remorse and wondering what I might do for recompense and restitution for such a heinous crime of slaughtering my sister’s helpless white cat.

Unaccustomed to such a plight, I drove to the local veterinary office where our family friend O’dell Foster served a nurse.  She would understand.  She could help me undo this dastardly deed, even though the cat was at fault.  After confessing to the crime, I asked if she might know where I could find a cat of the same ilk to replace the flat cat in the driveway.  She tried to dissuade me from such a course of action, claiming that cats are particular, peculiar and irreplaceable.  A cat is a cat I reasoned, and a live one is better than a dead one.  And they happened to have a white one of similar vintage and proportion.  Who would ever know?

The new white cat and I hauled tail back to the house before anyone had returned, and I left that replacement in mint condition on the back porch before heading back to college justified and off the hook.  And I would certainly hope that my sister would have the common decency to not call the new cat by the former cat’s name:  Pancake!

A post script for this story.  In her earlier childhood, Katherine had received two little ducklings for Easter.  They would eventually grow into her beloved pet ducks until they got run over taking their ever-loving time crossing the street.  Their names were Dilly and Dally.