My sweetie stormed through the front door Saturday morning asking me if I knew where the shovel was. When I asked what was going on, he yelled, "You don't want to know" and stormed back out.
I knew this wasn't good, and I continued scrubbing away at the bathroom counter while I made a list in my head of what could be going on in the pre-dawn darkness that required a shovel and my blissful ignorance. When he finally came back inside, my never-miss-a-meal husband washed his hands, sat down at the table, and told me he wasn't hungry. It turned out one of the cats outside had been hit by a car sometime during the night. It's moments like that that make me so appreciative for that certain quality this man has. He took care of something gruesome because he knew I'd need a mega dose of valium to get through it. And then he fought back the tears at the thought of what he had just seen. I love that mixture of masculine strength and humanity rolled into his broad shoulders.
By the end of the day, we knew that it was my favorite outdoor cat. She was a long-haired calico, with bright orange, fuzzy fur all over her body. Our first introduction was this summer when I first stepped on to the front porch and saw her nursing a new litter of kittens. She greeted me every morning and evening, and even braved the back forty of our yard when I took the dogs on hikes. I liked this cat so much that I even toyed with the idea of setting up a litter box on the front porch so she could stay there curled up in the porch chair she so loved instead of sleeping on the car tires and getting matted in the rain.
It's not that I'm feeling sad about it or threw my body over the cat's grave. This is just a very real piece of life—one that I needed to share.
I knew this wasn't good, and I continued scrubbing away at the bathroom counter while I made a list in my head of what could be going on in the pre-dawn darkness that required a shovel and my blissful ignorance. When he finally came back inside, my never-miss-a-meal husband washed his hands, sat down at the table, and told me he wasn't hungry. It turned out one of the cats outside had been hit by a car sometime during the night. It's moments like that that make me so appreciative for that certain quality this man has. He took care of something gruesome because he knew I'd need a mega dose of valium to get through it. And then he fought back the tears at the thought of what he had just seen. I love that mixture of masculine strength and humanity rolled into his broad shoulders.
By the end of the day, we knew that it was my favorite outdoor cat. She was a long-haired calico, with bright orange, fuzzy fur all over her body. Our first introduction was this summer when I first stepped on to the front porch and saw her nursing a new litter of kittens. She greeted me every morning and evening, and even braved the back forty of our yard when I took the dogs on hikes. I liked this cat so much that I even toyed with the idea of setting up a litter box on the front porch so she could stay there curled up in the porch chair she so loved instead of sleeping on the car tires and getting matted in the rain.
It's not that I'm feeling sad about it or threw my body over the cat's grave. This is just a very real piece of life—one that I needed to share.
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