Silly Old Cat...

It hasn't rained in over a month...

The dirt's hard and the shovel jars sharply in my side as it hits the earth with a short clang. My rib's on fire and it's taking forever to dig this hole.

Chip by chip.

My little Son is standing to the side of me; gleefully throwing leaves and flowers into the shallow grave. He thinks it's a game- not a funeral. When I'm almost done I tell him that I'm going to get Mickey and put him in the hole. In a minute. When I'm done digging.

Because Mickey didn't look both ways.

My Hubby's at the pub watching his beloved Parramatta; he's advised me to tell our youngest that the cat had merely run away- because it would be easier that way. But I don't want him to find out one day that I lied; it would have been the same as when we found out as children that Kimba and her last litter of kittens hadn't gone to 'live on a farm' as we had been told- but had been euthanased instead. Children have the right to grieve, too.

He's stiff as I lift him from the box; there are a number of small black ants already crawling in and out of his open mouth. His head's taken the brunt of the impact and one eye hangs loose from it's socket. His claws are extended and battered; like chipped ice-skate blades. I hope he died right away and didn't have to feel it...

My Hubby's placed an old towel over him which I use to cover his head from my Son. I don't want his last memory of the cat to be with his eye hanging out that way. He pats him roughly and tells me he's a Silly Old Cat, and I agree, bending him into the hole so that it appears he is curled up and sleeping. I hadn't actually realised just how big he was- considering he was still only a baby. I suggest to my Son that we bury him with something; and he runs off into the garden searching for the toy weasel that he so often played with. Then it's time to cover up what's left of the hole.

Four daisies later my little Son tells me that we can get Mickey back out of the hole now; because he is getting dirty. I tell him that this Garden is Mickey's home and that we won't see him again. I expected my little Son to cry. He didn't.

But when he- once again- said to me that he was a silly old cat I have to admit that I did; and more than just a little bit.

Silly old cat indeed.