Sometimes our family members fail to tell us the important things in life and we stumble on them by ourselves. Today, I went out to the greenhouse to get a shovel for a “pink” section I’m putting in an empty flower bed. What do my eyes spy but freshly disturbed soil with a cross marker.
I must admit I stopped in my tracks to consider it because it was long enough for a human. Plus, it was at the edge of the woods where I’ve been telling Evie and the Mad Tattah that I had a hole dug for them that I could put them in if they continued to abuse me. I knew I had mentioned this joke somewhere in the comments of this blog and on Facebook so, of course, I couldn’t help but wonder if someone had snuck in during the dead of night and, well, you know what I mean. It would be my luck to make a joke like that and get sent to the glamour slammer for something I didn’t do.
With the whites of my eyes flailing around in my eye socket, I went to the garage to ask Poppie if he knew anything about the freshly dug grave.
“My cat died,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
He then explained the circumstances. I wasn’t exactly sure how you could tell that a cat was a sure enough goner so I asked, “Did you check his pulse?”
A look of incredulity passed across Poppie’s face. The kind that suggested I had lost my mind or had been watching too many of those detective shows on television. He went into greater detail to explain that Hobo/Mimi was, for real, gone.
It was a heartbreaking day for all of us because Hobo/Mimi had been with our family at least ten years, maybe more. He came at three in the morning as a stray scratching and meowing at the French doors where Poppie sleeps in his recliner. He will be sorely missed by all of us. He was the nicest, most gentle and loving of the stray cats we’ve taken in. We are now down to the three feral cats – Mangy, Big Foot and Whiskey – not a single one of them a winner like Hobo/Mimi.