Mom, there’s a dead cat in the streeeeeet!
That was the first sentence my darling daughter of 12 has said to me in almost 90 minutes.
I’m busy blogging.
She’s busy watching tv….or reading….or whatever it is tween girls do in the privacy of their own rooms these days.
But, of course, a dead animal, in the street no less, means that I have to immediately go out into the cold, cruel world and see if the poor darling is still alive.
But wait…first I must traverse through the sea of people from upstairs stoically mumbling “is that a cat”…”is is still alive”…”its not breathing”.
Geniuses I tell you!
I prodded the thing with the two of my foot while dodging traffic who apparently cannot see a beautiful black woman in a white shirt.
(Hm, wonder how many cool points I am worth iffen they hit me?!?!)
Yep, poor kitty is as dead as a doorknob.
I send baby girl into the house to get a bag ’cause I’m not touching a corpse with my bare hands.
Again, I hear from the peanut gallery..”get that poor cat out of the street”…”you should move that cat”.
Duh, why don’t you bring you happy hinney down here and do it then.
Baby girl comes out with the bag and I…one…two…three..go…hop back into the street and swoop the kitten carcass.
Sad but true that the poor lil’ tyke was the mama cat that babygirl “adopted” when we moved in here.
No sign of the kittens although they should be old enough to survive on their own.
Anywho, when she wasn’t looking, I chucked that sucker right into the garbage bin.
Is that illegal?
Oh, well, PETA be damned, I’m not burying it!