Our cat, Rosie (no, not named after Rosie O’Donnell, c’mon, this is serious) had five kittens last week. She’s a tortoiseshell cat, and had three white, one black, and one tan kitten. All seemed to be doing well. Until this morning.
My wife noticed one of the white kittens was not responding, and we determined it (he) was dead. My youngest son (seven) went ballistic, bawling like a banshee, begging me not to bury it, so “we could look at it.” Eventually, though, it had to go.
So my middle son and I buried the 10-day old kitten in a shady spot under one of our towering water maple trees. He made a small gravestone for it (“unnamed, 2007-2007”) and we wished it goodnight and laid it to rest.
Shortly thereafter, my youngest, a bit calmed down by now, announced to us “I may not laugh anymore today.”
Everyone needs to learn sometime.
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