She didn't handle grief very well . . .

She didn't handle grief very well and he knew it. He forlornly retraced his steps back up the front walk, a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. If there was a worse way to start a day, he wasn't sure he could think of it. Her cat was dead and he had to break the news. Making it worse, he was certain that somehow this would be construed as his fault.

How could I possibly know that stupid animal was taking a nap under the hood of my car?


The door groaned slightly as he pushed it open. The sound of the creaky door was an echo of the way his gut felt. She loved that cat. As far as he was concerned the animal had been nothing but trouble. Its shedding was constant. The litter box reeked. A perpetually unfriendly creature, it had returned any attempt to pet it with a taste of its sharp claws. It constantly left vile gifts of small dead animals in random places, sometimes even sneaking one into the bedroom.

Yes, he'd hated the cat, but this wasn't the real issue. He'd been very vocal about how much he hated the cat. Because of this she'd certainly blame him for killing it even though it was a practically unavoidable accident. Who looks under the hood before stating their car? No one! he thought building a defense in his mind. He called her name and she came down the stairs looking perplexed.

"I thought you left." she half stated, half questioned. He tried to keep his face free of emotion, but clearly failed. Her look of confusion shifted to one of dismay. "What is it? What happened, honey?" she asked.

He ushered her across the room to the couch. Even as he did so, he fumbled in his mind trying to find the right words to break the news. The cat had been hers before they were married. In a life where things were no longer his or her's, the feline was a sole exception. I killed her cat. How do I break that news to her?

She was on the edge of the couch kneading her hands as if to alleviate arthritic pain. He knew she was not arthritic. To make her wait much longer would be torture. What things might be going through her mind, he wondered. She could be making this out to be something worse. Her father has cancer . . . her sister was in an accident . . .


In a passing instant he pondered that allowing these things to stew for a moment might diminish the blow when she found it was only the cat. She sat gazing up at him, expectant dread in her eyes. He couldn't make her suffer. He sat down beside her, took her hand and tried to look at her. He failed to meet her gaze.

"I'm so sorry, Honey. Your cat is dead."

Her reaction was unexpected. She laughed. For a moment he thought her insane. Perhaps she had heard him incorrectly. Now he was the bewildered one. She was crying from laughing so hard. Was this some sort of shock? Hysterical panic?

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she finally exclaimed, "That cat? I hated that cat! I only ever got a cat because I thought you liked them."