Burying the Wrong Cat

Lisa works with really nice people. Over the past year and a half, living most of that time here in Ohio, her and I have made southeast Ohio our home and these people our family.  We have been blessed.

Fay is one of our favorites. The energy she brings to her job at Southeast Medical is infectious and stories of her exploits have entertained Lisa and I for hours.  Sometimes her energy forces a wrong word or phrase from her mouth and leaves everyone confused and amused.  She told Lisa the other day a story about how she almost moved to “Pepsi-Cola, Florida”.  I asked if “Pepsi-Cola” was anywhere near “Coca-Cola Beach”.  We adore Fay.

Of all the stories Fay has shared with us, none have been funnier than the time her and husband, Jim, buried their dead cat.  One day, while driving near their home in Zanesville, Fay noticed a dead cat on the road. She immediately recognized it as one of hers (she claims to take care of at least a half dozen). Using an empty copy paper box she had in her car, she managed to sweep the stiff feline from the road and carry it back to her house for proper burial.

Now, copy paper boxes are rather large when trying to bury them as cat caskets and she described in detail that beads of sweat soon began forming on her husband’s forehead as he dug this rather large and deep final resting place.  Finally, Jim had a large enough grave dug for both cat and box and the poor cat was laid to rest.

Sometime later that evening, Fay heard Jim calling her name and stating that the dead cat had just walked into their yard.  Either the thing had managed to claw through the box and three feet of dirt or they had buried the wrong cat.

They had buried the wrong cat.

I thought about Jim and his beads of sweat. Here he was trying to console poor Fay by digging this enormous hole in the ground for a dead cat that was not even theirs.

The truth is – I have done the same thing. No – I have never buried the wrong cat, but, I have focused my energy and attention on things that really don’t matter. How many times have beads of sweat popped up on my forehead as I toil and worry and fuss about things that, in the end, worked themselves out on their own. The cat they believed had died that fiery death on the highway, was probably watching them from the shade of a bush as they dug its grave.  In the end, all the cats I worry about in my life are alive and well after all.  And no amount of sweat and blisters will change that.

I do want to leave you with this advice. Before you go burying that dead cat, make sure it is the right one.

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