I was visiting my Mom, which always involves an “event” of some sort. On this hot, humid August morning in Lumberton, it would be a doosy.
I offered to take Jolie, my Ma’s little yippy, piece of a dog, outside to potty. I stepped out under the carport, put Jolie down in the yard, and began to take a long stretch. As I stretched, I looked to my right and saw it. A dead cat beside the road. I didn’t panic; I could immediately tell it was not one of Ma’s. However, I did tell myself that this cat was going to have a major impact on my day. I can just feel these things.
I stuck my head inside the door and told Ma she needed to come ID the body, but not to panic, I knew it was not hers. She only got half way out the drive and announced, that’s Bandit, Lynn’s cat (Lynn rents a house from Ma). Ma turns to me and says she will go tell her.
It does not take long until Lynn comes across the yard with her bathrobe flopping in the wind and crying. I take her by the arm to escort her to the body. She looks down at the now STIFF body and says, “Well, I am not sure that is him. Can you hold him up?” Knowing from personal experience how painful this can be, I sort of sat him up for viewing. Now please keep in mind, this cat is STIFF. I mean grave-yard -dead STIFF. As I hold him, she looks at him and says, “I’m not sure, you know dead cats look different than live cats”. I somehow managed to hold my composure. “I really don’t think that is him”. I decide to find the owner and Lynn heads home, where she goes inside, gets a bag of cat food, and walks around the back yard yelling “BANDIT” and shaking the bag of food.
I start making my way up the street to find and inform the next of kin. As I am stranding on the porch of house #2 of my search, I see Lynn headed my way, crying, still in bathrobe, and now holding a bag of Meowmix. I leave the porch and meet her half-way. “I think that maybe that is him, can you pick him up for me again”. What the heck. I again sit-up Mr. Stiffy for identification. Did I mention he died with his eyes open? Yeah, well anyway, she looks him over and says, “Can you turn him to the left”. Oh good grief! I must reiterate that the cat is STIFF. So here I am, standing on the side of one of the busiest roads in Lumberton, Snake Road, positioning a dead, STIFF cat in various mug shot type poses. Out of nowhere, “OH NO—THAT IS BANDIT!!”, followed by much crying, flailing of hands, and running. I takes me a minute to grasp everything that is happening and follow. She runs into Ma’s house, where Ma consoles her with kind words and nicotine. After a while, she says she needs to bury him. Being an animal lover and having suffered the loss of a pet, I tell her I will bury him for her. She says she appreciates it. Ma looks at me and tells me I will need to bury him 6 feet. After a moment of stunned silence in I said OK, but in my mind I really answered, “Yeah right”.
Ma gets me a white garbage bag and tells me what a great person I am. At this point, I think “stupid” would be better adjective. With bag and shovel under arm, I head back out to the deceased. I only have one thing to say about this part of the task at hand. It is not easy to put a rigor mortis ridden cat into a garbage bag. Doable, but not easy.
Thank goodness, Lumberton is made up of very sandy, soft, rich soil. Great farm land, so digging was not as hard as it could have been. However, let’s not forget that it is 900 friggin degrees outside with 100% humidity. I dig…and dig…and dig. Finally I have what I feel is a proper grave. I gently place Bandit into his final resting place. It’s deep enough, about 3 feet, but not nearly wide enough. I intend to do no more digging, so—now how do I put this…using the shovel, I sort of “broke-up” Bandit, if you will. Now don’t get all freaked out, I was about to have a heat stroke, and it ain’t like anyone is gonna need a dead cat fully intact. About that time, I hear Lynn coming out her front door yelling she is coming to help. OH CRAP! I don’t want her to see what has become of Bandit’s remains! I start shoveling dirt with force and speed unmatched by grave diggers everywhere. Shew-I made it. All atrocities were completely covered by the time she made it to graveside. She helps fill the last foot or so of the grave with dirt. We also decided to put a few cinder blocks over the hole for a few months to make sure Ma’s dogs, Winston-the boxer and Izzy-the shepherd mix, don’t disturb the grave. She thanks me and I head to the house.
It is 10am on a Saturday morning, I am sweating, thirsty, and suffering from mild dehydration. As I am standing at the sink drinking water and trying to recover, Ma bounces into the kitchen to tell me how sweet I am and how proud she is of me. I look at her in total disbelief and shouted, “6 FEET ?” Her answer, as is she, was priceless. “Now Lisa, I don’t want to look out this window and see Winston and Izzy playing tug-of-war with a dead cat”.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
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