Puddington's Revenge

"Wait, we can still save him!" I choked the words out in between fits of laughter.

"You really ARE an asshole, you know that?" she fired at me between sobs. Her red eyes were caught between sorrow for her now dead cat and her immediate anger for my insensitivity.

"Are you suggesting that my attempts at reviving Puddington are in jest?" I pushed the envelope a little further.

"Ugh, you can't perform CPR on a cat, Michael!!!"

"Well, I suppose not on one that has met it's demise introducing himself to the undercarriage of a Chevy Impala". It was getting harder to stifle my laughter. "Hey, we could get some dental floss and reanimate him as a marionette!" I pressed further. "Our little 'Puddington the Puppet!" I picked the now stiffening cat up by the front paws and made it dance on the porch.

"STOP IT!!! How could you joke about this??? I've had that cat since my freshman year!!! I can't believe what a heartless prick you are!!!" Her sobs had turned to wails.

I hated that Goddam cat. The jury was still out whether or not I was glad it was dead, but I was happy to be finally rid of it. My intense dislike for him stemmed from our initial introduction. He pissed on my favorite pair of Van's and I never forgave him. From that point on our territory battle raged like a complicated game of RISK and our relationship was perpetually strained. I had an irrational fear of being suffocated in my sleep by him laying on my face. Yeah, that's the same look my psychologist gave me.

"I'm sorry, Babe...what would you like me to do with Dear Puddington?"

"First of all, stop teasing me! I'm too upset to deal with your shit right now!" She continued.

"Ok, I'm sorry...what do you want me to do with him" I figured I needed to let up to ensure I wouldn't be needing a hotel room this evening.

"Well" she sniffled, "I think you should make him a nice little box so we can bury him under the black walnut tree."

"Bury him??? It's fuckin' February!!! The ground is frozen 2 foot down!!!" I exclaimed.

"Just PLEASE do it!!!" Her word was final and I decided to not press the issue.

I rolled my eyes and headed for the garage with the furry carcass in tow, carrying it by the tail. It's funny how one minute we can be hugging/petting an animal but handle it with surgical precision the moment it is dead. We deal with death with a stigma as if it is somehow going to spread to us. It now becomes "gross" and we don't want to touch it with our bare hands...regardless if we were ear scratching it minutes before it's death.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with this thing?" I mumbled. "I can't dig a hole in..." and it hit me. Recalling a story a coworker had told me when his cat had died suddenly one morning before leaving for the office, his wife was also too distraught to deal with the actual disposal. He did what any rational man late for work WOULD do: he gingerly stuffed it into a lawn and leaf bag and tossed it in the dumpster behind 7-11 on his morning coffee stop.

"Shit, she'll never know the difference if I just toss it in the can" I rationalized. "Hell, it's garbage day today anyway!"

I peaked around the corner of the garage to see if I was under surveillance and upon realizing I was free to move, executed my movements with military precision. I picked up the top bag from the first can, stuffed the tabby as deep as I could reach, replaced the bag and put the lid on. I quickly dragged the cans to the curb and returned to the garage for a shovel. It had been a relatively mild winter so there wasn't more than 3 or so inches of snow on the ground but the topsoil was rock hard underfoot. I quickly removed the top layer of snow from a section of ground beneath the looming walnut tree. Standing just out of frame of view, I scraped the top inch of grass and topsoil to give the appearance of disturbed soil. After a few minutes of toiling, I was satisfied with my ruse and returned to the house.

"Did you bury him?" she asked with pleading eyes.

"Yep, right next to the spot I have picked out for your Mom!" I shot back.

"MICHAEL!" She was too exasperated to finish her sentence.

The work day seemed to fly by as I regailed my tale of deceit to my fellow coworkers and passersby. All was well upon my return home as well...until the doorbell rang.

"Stevens, what's happenin'?" I asked Bill Stevens, my neighbor and occasional fishing partner.

"Hey, Man, I uhh, just got home and let Maizy out". Bill Stevens had over-sized labrador named "Maizy". Emily popped her head over my shoulder "Hey, Bill, what's up?" Her face turned from congenial to horror as Bill produced and now partially chewed, dead Puddinton. "I just let her back in and she had your cat in her mouth...hard as a rock. At first I thought maybe she had gotten ahold of him, but by the mess at the curb, it looks like she pulled him out of your garbage can." I could felt Emily's eyes burning holes in my cheek as she burst into tears and retreated into the house.

"Sorry about your cat, Em!" Bill called after her. It was too late. I was fucked.

I closed the door and felt the remorse begin to settle in over my inaffectionate treating of the former member of our household. "Then again, the son of a bitch DID make a habit of spraying my stuff with his butt-juice", I told myself.

I couldn't even lie my way out of this one. Maytag couldn't make place more frigid than our bedroom as I tried to feign sincerity in my apology and slid under the sheets.

I muttered a sea of apologies that stretched for light years, or at least sometime past midnight until she seemed convinced by my pleading.

As I rolled over attempting to conceal my smirk I caught the distinct smell of cat urine on my down pillow as the tip of my nose touched a wet spot. "SON OF A BITCH!!!!"