A funny thing happened on the way to the gym the other day. Well, I guess it's more like a twisted thing happened. I'm sure there must be a difference. Twisted, funny. Twisted, funny. Such a fine line.
Well, anyway, I live in a rural area in Pennsylvania, and it's not unusual to find dead animals on the road. As I drove along my road I saw that I was approaching one. It was dark in color and I was thinking “skunk.” But as I got closer I saw that it was really more of a dark gray color, kind of like my cat. Oh, no. My cat.
And as I drove very close I could see that it was, indeed, my cat. Sonata was her name. I am a musician, and I have cats with musical names. Sonata and Minuet. Go ahead, make fun of me. So, obviously Sonata had been hit and killed while hanging out where she shouldn't have been, and it was recently, too. As I got out and touched her she was still warm. Warm, but definitely dead. I picked her up and moved her to the side of the road so I could think of what to do next. She hung limp as I carried her, her lifeless limbs swaying slightly. Definitely dead. At this point many thoughts are swirling in my head. I would have to tell my boys. They would be sad that their beloved family pet is gone. I would miss the cat myself. It was nice to have two cats, who were sisters we were told at the humane society, to share our home. I also felt guilt over not really paying enough attention to Sonata and often thinking of her as sort of a bother. And what should I do now? Go to the gym as planned? Return home? Bring the cat with me? Get a bag and come back for it?
So I called home to tell my wife, Sheri, the bad news. She shared my trepidation about telling the boys, but she also was clearly sad about it herself. So I decided to scrap my gym plans and come home right away. And I decided, why bother to get a bag? I would just put Sonata on the floor of the car. After all, she was family. Dead family, but family nonetheless.
As I got home, I hugged Sheri, and we called Morgan, 8, and Carter, 4, for a family meeting. We sat on our couches, where we have most of our meaningful family encounters, such as family worship each night and watching Philadelphia Eagles games on Sundays. I told them, “Guys, I have some sad news. Sonata was hit on the road and killed. She is dead.” I told them that she died right there, apparently quickly, so she probably didn't hurt very much at all. We told them that she wasn't hurting at all now, she wasn't scared, and not thinking anything at all. Her body was there, but Sonata was completely gone away. They seemed to understand, and they responded true to form. Carter, our sensitive little one, said, “I'm sad that Sonata is dead.” Morgan, our mathematician, said, “As long as she's already dead, can we cut her open and see what she looks like inside?” We empathized with Carter and assured Morgan that dissecting a family pet is too disrespectful and would not be performed. With that we adjourned to the backyard.
I dug a hole and then went back to the car to retrieve the dearly departed. She was tough to carry being so limp and so furry. She kept sliding out of my grip, so I gave her a ride on the shovel. Sheri chastised me a little for my solution. “Disrespectful?” I asked. She nodded. I carried her to the hole and put her down beside it so the boys could get one last look.
“Are you sure that's Sonata?” Morgan asked.
“Dude, look for yourself. It's her,” I replied.
“Her head looks a little bigger.” Sheri pointed out, “but that could be because she's dead. People look a little different when they're dead. Maybe cats do, too.” It was also interesting to note that a portion of her tail was missing, something that could easily have happened during the accident.
“Look. Don't you agree? That's clearly Sonata,” I asserted.
“Yeah, you're right,” everyone finally agreed.
The boys asked to pet her one last time. We allowed it since this was part of the goodbye process. We each took a turn stroking her soft fur. It was bittersweet gently touching this feline friend of ours for a final time. Then it was time to move her to her final resting place. I gently dropped her into the hole and began to cover her with dirt. When the job was done we had a short prayer service. We thanked God for giving us such a nice cat, we asked Him to keep Minuet, our other cat, from being too lonely, and we asked for help not being too sad ourselves. Morgan prayed, “Dear Jesus, please let that not be Sonata. Amen.” Sometimes it's hard to face the truth , I thought.
With our homemade funeral service complete, it was time to get back to our lives. I set about putting my digging tools back into the shed, and the rest of my family went up to the house. But before I got to the shed, Sheri called me.
“Derek, could you come up here right now, please?” she asked in a calm voice.
I put down my tools and proceeded to the back of the house, where Sonata was calmly walking all around the yard. Yes, that's the cat I just got finished burying.
I was stunned. In my mind I had already been thinking ahead to life without Sonata. I was thinking of how I would no longer get to see her drool as I scratched her little head, a gross but endearing effect of my affection. I thought about how we would only go through cat food half as quickly now. Many other post-Sonata thoughts and feelings had surfaced as I had begun to mourn. And now all of that was out the window because Sonata was very much alive.
Huh?
So the obviously questions come. Is this a miracle? Did God raise our cat back to life? Or did I bury another cat? That would explain my son's skepticism and the missing piece of tail. Also that cat had no collar and Sonata had hers. Sonata loses hers all the time, so it was readily explained. And yet Sonata still had hers. The conclusion seemed obvious. I had the wrong cat.
Then the realizations came.
Eww! Someone else's dead cat was in my car! (We threw away the car mat.)
Eww! My kids and I petted someone else's dead cat! (We washed thoroughly.)
Eww! Someone else's dead cat is in my yard! (We left it there. How weird do you think I am?)
So now there's a family somewhere wondering where their cat is. I picture a forlorn young child of 5 or 6 calling out from a front porch, “Fluuuuuu-ffyyyyyyy! Where are you, Fluffy? Mom, is Fluffy ever coming home? I miss her.”
“I don't know, dear,” Mom replies. “We'll just have to wait and see.”
I have the answer. Fluffy ain't comin' home. She's buried in my yard!
As a man of faith, I am compelled to ask the question: what is God wanting me to learn from this. Yes, even burying someone else's dead cat can offer opportunities for growth. Not for the cat, of course, but for my spirit. I learned that I am quick to assume I know what's going on when I don't. I am also quick to dismiss the caution of others and to plow ahead with reckless abandon. I need to be willing to question myself and not assume I know everything, and I need to be willing to listen.
And so I eagerly await God's next lessons for me, hoping that they won't be quite so yucky, but knowing that they most likely will. He knows what kind of student I am.
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