I started to rise when I saw it—a flash of blackness dart across the shadows of the coming night.
I froze, still sad, and still with a full bag. The spot on the roof remained empty. I watched long enough, then shook off my visions as a simple case of wishful thinking.
And then she was there. Our cat was on her mark, and she was safe despite her being tardy.
All of a sudden my night was a little different. Instead of stealing home early to prevent my wife and children from undue sadness, I was bringing unknown dead pets into our lives, and I was left holding the bag.
I realized that I didn’t have a plan for disposing of the cat when I thought it was a beloved pet, let alone this new stranger. Still, my neighbor had picked the cat off the street as a favor to me and my boys, and I had almost shed a tear on its behalf. Almost.
I stood there in the dark, coming so close to having done the right thing, and then I tied the bag tight in numerous knots and places. Then I threw the bag in our trashcan.
I honestly didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t bury it in the yard, the dogs would dig it up. I couldn’t go put it back on the street. That would have been very awkward, especially if I had been caught.
No, I threw it in the trash and symbolically threw a couple shovels of dirt upon it.
My boys will never know how close they came to sadness, but I’ll know exactly what it is that I will do for their happiness.
I’m okay with that.
This post originally ran at DadCentric—Not Your Mother’s DaddyBlog.
Photo courtesy of Whit Honea
