The recent story about the cat that “came back” so to speak from the dead is of course terrifying all by itself.  Just click through and read about this poor creature that decided it just wasn’t done eating the young and terrorizing the countryside.  I mean, seriously just look at this thing.

It looks like this particular cat is going to make it, somehow, which I suppose is great news for the cat but not so great for the family that buried him, as we all know.

This all reminded me of a story that I don’t believe made it to the blog yet, but I believe the statute of limitations has expired on it now and it can finally come to light.

Years ago, Jordy had a cat at her Dad’s house that wandered off one day unexpectedly.  It was missing for a while, but it did that often enough that she wasn’t too concerned, until one day when she was on her way back to Kanata after a weekend in Cornwall and she saw what was obviously her cat, dead on the road near her Dad’s house.  Needless to say by the time she got to Kanata she was fully worked up and very upset.  Nikki and I tried to calm her down the best we could, but it was soon clear that there really was only one choice.

So, with garbage bags, a shovel and gloves (and garlic, stakes and a crucifix) I drove off that evening to Cornwall to collect the cat.  There are few things that look as suspicious as being parked on the side of the road with the trunk up and a shovel in hand at night.  I made it back successfully without being arrested for questioning and proceeded to entomb the creature in our backyard by the ghostly light of the eldritch moon.  Or at least that’s what it felt like by this time, because there’s just something about moving dead things around in your car at night that gets to you…

The next morning I told Jordy that all was well, and the cat was at rest in our backyard.  Well, nice try there sucker, but Jordy had by this time written a letter to say goodbye, which she wanted buried with the cat.  Sooo we dug up the cat one more time, said a few words and re-buried the cat with the letter in the much friendlier and less sinister daylight.

End of story.

Except it wasn’t the end of the story.  Three weeks later, Jordy calls us from a weekend at her Dad’s house in Cornwall and says brightly on the phone:  “Guess what?  Caillou came back!”  I didn’t mention that the cat’s name was Caillou, did I?  Well it is.

And that friends, is how I came to drive most of two hours by moonlight to collect somebody else’s cat and bury it twice in my own backyard.