Meowing off into the sunset

Awhile back we had a cat explosion around Diva Ranch. We had 12, then Mama Cita had her kittens, but we never found them and something must've gotten 'em because they've never appeared. And the litter that Cindy Brady had plus the two orphan cats disappeared then reappeared minus one. Then, Mija and Junior wandered off/got eaten/were abducted by aliens. So we were sittin' at 9 cats. And they come in various sizes - small, medium and large.

In the last litter Mija had there were two Siamese lookin' kittens, one much prettier than the other. Abby adopted the pretty, whiter one as hers and named her Joyce. Yes. I said Joyce. Not Fluffy, Buttons, Smokey or Socks, but Joyce. She said that because she was so pretty that just looking at her gave her joy. I know, I know. She's precious. And after all of the trauma that has occured this last week regarding Miss Joyce, I may very well end up with a granddaughter named Joyce someday. She really was attached to that cat.

Get ready. You know what's coming.

Last Sunday I was running late to go pick up Tater's tots and didn't do my usual bang on the van hood and honk the horn thing to run the cats out from underneath.

Yep.

I did.

I made cat salad out of my daughter's cat.

I turned the van on and it was idling while I put on my seatbelt and put on my sunglasses. Then as I was getting ready to put it in gear I heard Kathump-kaTHUMP. I groaned and my heart sank to my toes. Abby goes, "WHAT was that?!" I just turned the van off and said nothing. Quietly she said, "You don't want to tell me, do you?" I shook my head and opened the door. Sam, being Mr. Diva's son and therefore tactless most of the time, said, "Cool! Mom shredded a cat!" Kady began bawling her head off. Abby remained calm and because she's a natural-born mother hen focused on calming Kady down. Sam was just anxious to see the carnage.

I popped the hood, got out of the van and stood there for a few seconds, taking deep breaths and praying for strength. I felt around for the latch and that's when I started gagging. It wasn't that I had seen anything gross or smelled anything bad, it was the thought of finding Cat Tartar under my hood. I stepped back, took some more deep breaths and again tried to open the hood. And again, I started gagging. I got my cell phone and called my mom to tell her I was going to be late and then called Mr. Neighbor. He laughed, but said he'd come up.

He's a police officer, he's used to things much worse than Kitten a la Transmissione, so he got right down to popping the hood and found one very small, very angry, VERY pissed off kitten sitting on the battery. She was unhurt and was spitting and hissing to beat the band. I felt pretty silly for calling Mr. Neighbor then. She wasn't going to have anything to do with the likes of us humans, so he was trying to poke her with a stick to make her exit my van. Instead of exiting, she went further in. *sigh*

And he poked far enough in that he ran out Joyce. Joyce a la Transmissione.

Her tail and hind leg were pretty nasty looking, but she ran - and fast - and we figured she's just gotten nicked by the fan and would be fine. I honked the horn a few times, no other beasts ran out, Mr. Neighbor headed home and I headed out. And as I put the car back into drive after backing off the carport I watched another small kitten run out from under my van. It was kind of like watching cockroaches run out of a cabinet. (Not that I have extensive first-hand experience with cockroaches. I watch Discovery Channel.)

We kept an eye on Joyce this last week and Abby reported daily that she was doing fine. She limped a little, but was eating. I'm not sure if she was just putting on a brave kitten face and pretending to be okay or if something just went nastily awry as time went on, but yesterday morning Mr. Diva came in the house and said, "We're gonna have to put ol' Joyce down. She's dragging herself with only one front paw." Oh the drama that ensued - wailing, gnashing of teeth, dramatic throwing of bodies across beds, etc. I soothed them best I could and promised we'd have a funeral. Mr. Diva said, "You're going to have a funeral for a cat?" Four heads turned to him and glared. Coldly I said, "You can't honestly tell me that you didn't have funerals for your pets when you were a kid." He said, "Uhh....I can honestly say I never had a funeral for a pet when I was a kid." I was stunned.

Growing up in the country and both of us being mushy, tenderhearted girls, Tater and I never passed up an opportunity have a good funeral for any dearly departed critter we found. And if we were lacking in subjects, we weren't above peeling butterflies from the grill of Mom's car and burying them as well. We put to rest countless butterflies, frogs, caterpillars and worms in that driveway growing up. Possibly a few goldfish. We were very solemn and no service was complete without singing and scripture. So, naturally, it seemed right that we give Joyce the same treatment.

The morning wore on and I did everything I could to keep the kids occupied in the back of the house. I didn't want them to hear the gunshot. When we should've been working on putting the girls' room back together, instead we pulled out their baby photo albums and sat back there looking at them. I heard the gun cabinet open and dug out more baby pictures. And turned on the radio. We laughed, giggled and strolled down Memory Lane while Joyce was strolling right on into Cat Heaven. Finally Mr. Diva came back and solemnly said, "You can have your funeral now. She's gone." Memory Lane was abandoned. The tears began anew. Abby said, "Did you have to shoot her, Daddy?" He said, "Ab, she's dead." In Abby's mind that meant she just passed on without assistance. And we're okay with her believing that.

The kids got their shoes on, I grabbed a handful of Kleenex on my way out the door and we headed to the back yard to put dear Joyce to rest. I was not prepared for what we saw in the backyard. The man who had been cranky since he woke up that morning, had been nothing but snarky and hateful to the kids and I the entire day, and had scoffed at our funeral request had buried that little kitten, mounded the dirt up neatly and had made a little wooden cross and placed it at the head of her grave. I looked at him and immediately forgave him for being a butt.

Kady, ever the drama queen, immediately fell to her knees, threw herself across the grave and proceded to cry with such intensity I was afraid she was going to rupture something. Abby buried her face in my shoulder and sobbed quietly. Even Sam, Junior Tactless, ran to his daddy and cried unashamedly. Mr. Diva and I looked at each other while we held our distraught children and cried, too. Not over the loss of Joyce, but at the loss of a small piece of their innocence, at the grief they were feeling and at the absolute unpleasantness that being a parent something brings.

When the tears started to taper off, Mr. Diva took all the kids to the crepe myrtle growing by the kitchen window and cut them each a branch of flowers to place on the grave. We all said a few words and then headed back into the house to carry on with life. But not before the kids stopped to pet Mama Cita's hugely pregnant belly and vow that her kittens would be named Joyce 1, Joyce 2, Joyce 3.....