The Third Grave

The air was heavy with a misty, left over rain and the sun wasn't making much progress when I realized the little dachshund had found yet another new way out of the yard. I snatched my keys, threw on on my Nikes and left to go retrieve him. I found him on the lawn of my next door neighbor, sitting still and quiet beside the body of one of my favorite neighborhood cats. It felt as if someone had rammed a knife into my chest. I led my little one back, returned with a towel to wrap up the small, lifeless body and carried him across the street to his home. It was just after seven on a gray-ish Sunday morning and I hated to have to wake Amanda but it'd have been far worse for her never to know. I had to ring the bell several times and listening to her dogs barking from inside, I wanted desperately to give up. She finally answered the door, still rubbing sleep from her eyes and hushing the dogs, frowning at the bundle in my arms.

“Hey,” she began, “What's up and who is............” and then she saw and crumpled into a heap, shaking and sobbing. It was several minutes before she was coherent and all I could do was hold her beloved cat and wait. Words are cold comfort at times like this.

It'd have been unforgivably cruel to bring up the fact that this sweet natured animal would still be alive if he'd been kept inside but it was a thought I'd had about Amanda's cats dozens of times. This is the third one she's lost to the outside world and for the sake of her two remaining inside/outside cats, I had a fierce urge to grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. I didn't do it, of course, you don't beat up someone who's just lost a beloved animal. Not even when it's the third one, not even when there may be a fourth or fifth.

Later that afternoon, we dug a third grave in the rain-softened ground in her back yard. It was impossibly sad and both of us were in tears. When we were done, we hugged briefly and I walked home slowly to gather my own little ones and be grateful for them.