Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Likes Cats. Really. She Has Five Of Her Own. So Don't Be Hatin'.

I have wasted the day blogging to and fro, reading whatever links caught my fancy. Of course I stumbled upon one that gave me pause. I don't want to link it, because even though it was quite well-written, an engrossing tale, what I am about to say may not be taken kindly by the writer. Seriously. I mean her no harm. Which is what my ex co-worker used to say before he went on a rant about how he felt like killing someone who had crossed him or his family.

The subject of the post was a stray cat who had come to call at Writer's house a couple of years ago. She had tracked down Stray's actual owners, so he wasn't really a stray, just a gadabout cat-about-town. Writer fed Stray when he came to visit, and invited him to spend the night in cold weather. Stray's owners down the street did not mind. Stray was their outdoor pet, and they were not overly concerned if Stray didn't make it home for a couple of days. After all, he was a cat.

Stray showed up at Writer's door recently. She still recognized him, even after a prolonged absence. Stray was not in good shape. Writer tended to him as best she could, then bundled him off to the vet. A caring thing to do. And on her own dime. Vet said that Stray was dancing with the Grim Reaper. Not in those words, of course. I'm sure a vet must speak much more compassionately than cold-hearted Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. The fact remains that Stray's time had come. He was ill. Nothing could be done for him except to assist him in crossing over to the big catnip patch in the sky. Writer did just that. Specifically, she paid for the vet to do that. It's not like she held a throw-pillow over Stray's face. Or sent him deep-sea diving in a pillowcase filled with rocks. Or took him for a walk with a .22, like Farmer H might have done. Again on her own dime, making sure that he was not alone, Writer did the right thing to allow Stray to leave this world.

Writer went to Stray's house to inform his owners. They were not home, but she heard their teen-age son in the back yard. Writer decided to wait until another time to tell the family that their cat had died. That's all a very noble thing.

But after reading the 'their cat had died' part, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's macabre sense of humor began flailing about inside her thick skull, demanding to be let loose. Please tell me that I'm not the only one to look at it from this angle. What it really boils down to, this uplifting, caring act of helping an animal end its suffering as life draws to a close, is this certain fact:

THAT LADY KILLED HER NEIGHBORS' CAT!