A Nice, Soft Place to Die

There are some neighborhoods where, if one lets one’s lawn get a little out of control, a neighborhood association of some sort comes to put down the proverbial smack. In other neighborhoods, people just wait for Metro to write you a citation (this has happened to a friend). In my neighborhood, one knows that one’s lawn is getting out of control when the neighborhood crackheads start knocking on the door to offer their services. Trust me, you don’t want to hire a crackhead. They’re unreliable and they neglect the trim.

In truth, it had been time for me to mow the yard for a few weeks, but the weeds that had sprung up had the most lovely purple flowers. My yard looked like a field from the opening credits of Little House on the Prairie. But the crackheads had begun to arrive and the lawn really was getting to a length that may have seemed like an invite to mice, so I broke out the mower yesterday.

I had mowed about eight feet, looking about a foot in front of the mower, when I came about two feet from mowing into a dead cat. It was at the very edge of the yard, hiding in the 10-inch-high flowers. I let out a loud gasp, regrouped, then immediately Twittered about it. Priorities. I think this was The Cat Formerly Known As Cat I’d See In My Back Yard. Oh well, buddy. Those cars really DO come flying around that curve, don’t they?

I realized later that Murphy has a perfect view of The Body from his perch at the big picture window in the living room. I wonder if he is now aware of his own mortality, or if he thinks The Body is just asleep, or if he notices The Body at all. Then again, when The Body was The Cat, it would come up to the office window and yowl to taunt Murphy. Maybe he knows more about how The Cat became The Body than he’d like to let on. If there is a way to kill another cat without actually leaving the house, I’m pretty sure Murphy would have mastered it. Note to self: do not piss Murphy off.

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