I enjoyed the dream of living on a hobby farm. Until the Day of the Cat.
On the Day of the Cat, a glorious spring morning, I was milking a goat in a sealed room (meaning we kept our barn cats out). Our four-year-old daughter climbed onto the big feed box at the wall and looked behind it.
“Mom, there’s a cat back there.”
I froze.
How had a cat gotten in?
I was afraid to ask, but did. “Is it dead or alive?”
She studied the gap between the box and the wall. “Dead. Can I pick it up?”
“NO!” Yuck.
My husband was typically the designated handler of all things gross. Dead things. Spiders the size of a child's fist. Mysterious smells. He is a man of courage and strong stomach. But he was forty miles away at his job. I was home alone.
Well, just me and a curious preschooler who was already angling for new ways to interact with the deceased.
“Leave it alone,” I added because I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes. She huffed and crossed her arms, but stayed put, feet dangling, watching me.
I drew a long breath, avoiding any mental images of what a dead cat smashed against the wall might look like.
Believing strongly in the principle that it’s better to face the horror than let it hang over your head all day, I finished my morning barn routine s-l-o-w-l-y and squared my shoulders.
It was time.
I gathered my supplies like someone preparing for battle.
✅ Hand sanitizer
✅ Thick trash bags
✅ Face mask
Back into the milking room I marched with my daughter right on my heels. She wouldn’t miss this for the world.
Paint dries faster than I moved into the room. I leaned over the feed box and looked down the gap.
There, tattered and soiled, lay…
… a purple and white stuffed cat toy.
I stared at it for a long moment.
“You said it was dead,” I said to my daughter.
“Well, it’s not alive.”
So ended the Day of the Cat. Minus, as it turned out, any actual cat.