And no, it did not see me…Baby.
It was actually the garden shed. I was puttering around in there Friday night trying to make a path to the wheelbarrow. Opening the door I smelled something peculiar but didn’t really think about it. As I was tugging at a small metal folding table I noted something on the ground a few inches from my feet.
My thoughts were these: How did Ginger (a black stuffed dog Christopher was given while in the hospital) get here?…*tug at the table*actually that looks more like that stuffed cat Eden just got, I thought that was in her closet…*tug, tug*wait, it’s kind of big…*tug*
And then I saw the white feet and began to shriek and tug at the table compulsively. Finally I dropped it, clawed my way past Paul, who was standing right behind me and staggered out into the yard.
Paul, lacking the heeby jeebies from which I suffered, investigated. It was a dead cat. While he went to grab a shovel I calmed myself down and explained to the kids. A mournful little trio stood at attention while their father carried his burden into the woods. Not five minutes later we heard the loud cawing of a raven…and then another…and another. Soon it was a frenzy of cries just yards away. By some miracle the kids didn’t notice.
Only later that night did it occur to me we should have checked with some of the neighbors. We began to giggle, imagining – if we did find the owners – what we could possibly say.
Nice.
Living where I do, with an abundance of wildlife, I am getting better about dealing with dead animals, but I am still firmly rooted in the heeby jeeby camp.
I have taught my big dog to capture and kill spiders for me. Wild encouragement and the promise of a dog treat can make that big lug do most anything.
Last night, I pointed out a beetle, crawling on the porch, to the puppy. He promptly killed it and ate it. This is a good sign.
Did the cat have a name? Reuben perhaps? Or how bout Seth or Ham?
Thanks for the tamater plant!
The problem with the heeby jeebies is the irrational nature of them or that they come so fast and then you are stuck.
This time my overriding terror was that this creature was going to start clawing at my feet and or my face. I went there while the synapses were flying, trying to determine what the thing was. Once I got to this horrific thought, the fact that a dead cat is a menace only visually and olfactorally couldn’t really compute.
Fear – it stinks.
Dan, You know it would have been something appropriate for Cold Comfort Farm, but I’m thinking something more Hezekiah-ish.
Sherry, I am surprised that you succumb to the hj’s. That must kill your pride.
Actually, since Elli’s birth and the Great Depression that followed, I don’t really do pride nearly as well as I used to.
I am actually just a very normal, average person, with all the rights and privileges thereof.
Occasionally getting the HJ’s is just one of those inherent rights.
I’m a big hj girl, but not about spiders. Any vermin, rodents, things with hair and long tails, uck. I would have cursed and screamed at a dead cat in the shed. Those situations are EXACTLY the reason I married a big strong man.
Why do I keep thinking of E.A. Poe while I read this story?