Bury the Cat

Our cat, Mister, was getting very old. I believe she was 15 years old. Yes, I said she. When we first brought her home as a kitten we thought it was a boy. Turned out he was a she, but we didn't change the name.

Cari called me at work to tell me Mister was looking REALLY bad. She said the cat looked near death and could hardly stand up. I was working until eleven that night and couldn't really do much except listen. Then Cari instructed me to dig a grave for the cat in the backyard.
I should have taken a picture of my face when she told me that. I would have to leave for work around eleven the next morning. How early I would be getting up to dig a three foot hole in the frozen clay. I was not happy.

I told Cari I would not dig the grave in the morning. I told her it would wait one additional day, for my day off. "When the cat dies, wrap her in plastic, and she'll be fine for a day", I said. That was unacceptable to Cari. She threatened to pay the neighbor boy to come do it.

We argued about this for a few minutes before I gave in and said I would dig the grave in the morning. During all this, the cat was still living. Why am I going to get up early to dig a grave for a living cat.
We got off the phone and I went back to work.

An hour later, Cari called again and said that Mister was dead. It was sad. Mister was one of the first things we got together. We used to hang a Christmas stocking for her. At that moment, I wasn't thinking too much about the happy memories. I was too focused on the hole I would dig. I was still frustrated about the whole thing. Can't it wait?

After work, I stayed up and made no effort to get to bed early. I looked outside at the thermometer. 30 degrees. The morning was coming up quick.

Stupid grave.