A story of love and loss in the autumn season
Pumpkin Spice Kitty
The Cat Distribution System had plans on that cool, October afternoon. As I pulled into my youngest daughter’s daycare, I noticed a smallish, collarless, black-and-white cat. Things escalated quickly: Car door opens. Cat jumps in. Tired mom gives up trying to coax him out from under the backseat. Hey, dinner wasn’t going to make itself.
I did all the usual things to find his owner, i.e. calling shelters and posting to social media, but no one claimed him. My daughter named him Pumpkin.
Pumpkin was not a smart cat. I suppose that’s what comes from being named after a squash that gets an annual lobotomy. And, what Pumpkin lacked in brains, he made up for in hubris. From Day 2, we learned we could not let him outside because he liked to sit–no, lounge–in the middle of the road, expecting cars to drive around him.
Pumpkin Goes to Kitty Heaven
One dark winter evening, we realized Pumpkin was missing. I still don’t know how he got out, but I suspect he sneaked out while I was bringing in groceries. We looked for him and called his name, but being a cat, he refused to come. It was cold and had snowed a few days prior, so at the time, we figured he was hiding inside the house somewhere.
That night, around 1am, a soft “thump,” woke me. Or maybe I dreamed it. I don’t know, but I had an instant feeling of dread. As I looked out the window, I saw him. There, under the streetlight, in the middle of the snow-packed road, lay Pumpkin. I ran outside, but he was already gone. Based on the scene, it was clear death was instant and he did not suffer. Smashing Pumpkins is not just a band.
It was Friday, so my ex and I decided we’d wait to tell the kids until after school. I laid Pumpkin in a box and put him in the makeshift cat morgue, also known as the garden shed. The kids resumed the search for him in the morning, but readily accepted my lie that he was probably off napping somewhere…even though, I thought to myself, it was a permanent nap.
When I got home from work, I went to collect the body. It was time to tell the kids the heartbreaking news. The plan was this: I would present Pumpkin to them, curled up in the box as if he was sleeping. Then we’d let the kids say goodbye, hold them through tears, and finally we’d bury him in the backyard, if the ground wasn’t too frozen.
To my dismay, when I opened the box, Pumpkin was a lot less presentable than I remembered. I’d wrapped him up in an old towel by moonlight. Now in proper lighting, it was clear that the original plan would not work unless it included filming B roll for a horror flick.
I thought to myself, maybe I could just let the tail hang out of the box and cover the rest. The tail was the least damaged, except for a few spots of blood.
The Things We Do for Our Children
Fast forward to me locking myself in the half-bath, washing a dead cat’s tail in the sink. By this time the kids’ dad was home, aware of the CSI scene down the hall, and attempting to keep the children distracted.
I was sad for Pumpkin’s fate, even if he had caused his own demise. In my distress, I forgot a very important fact: that when you add water to blood, even just a few drops, it spreads like an effing Easter egg dye tablet. I was distraught, okay? And Dexter I was not. I had diluted blood on my hands, the sink handles, and my clothes. By the time I was done, Pumpkin’s slightly-blood-speckled white tail was PINK.
The scene was so ridiculous I began laughing through tears, and my brain cells sprung back to life. I washed him again with hydrogen peroxide. All of this resulted in a wet, limp, white tail.
My tear-stained eyes fell on the hair dryer.
So there I was, standing in the bathroom, holding up a dead cat’s tail as I attempted to give it a blowout. The things we do for our children.
Once the tail was sufficiently dry and fluffy, I carefully wrapped the towel tightly around the rest of him so little hands couldn’t easily lift for a peek. Steeling myself, I unlocked the bathroom door, walked down the hall, and played it off like I’d just found the cat in the road.
I was able to give my kids one last goodbye (and one last soft kitty tail petting).
R.I.P. Pumpkin.