| Children Fiction posted February 2, 2010 |
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From the mouth's of babes.....
Precious!
by Begin Again
Hostility filled the air. My precocious six-year-old stood defiantly in front of her father,waving her tiny finger, and stomping her foot.
"You killed Precious." She hurled the accusation in his face.
"I didn't kill your cat," he snapped. Anger colored his face crimson.
"You said the next time she peed on your shoes, you'd kill her."
"Oh my God, I didn't kill that stupid cat." Shaking his head, he stormed past me. "Do something with your daughter."
My mouth dropped open, "My daughter?"
"When she's impossible, she's your daughter." Glaring at her, he grabbed his coat and left.
She crumpled into my arms, sobbing. "He killed her. I know he did."
The next hour, I consoled, explained, and reassured her that her father didn't kill Precious, our 13-year-old cat. She was old and it was just her time to go.
Sniffling, she agreed to accept my explanation and move on, creating problem number two.
"We have to give her a funnel, Mom."
"A funnel?" I raised my eyebrow questioningly.
"Yeah, like Grandma. Put her in the ground."
"A funeral. It's winter. We can't dig a grave." My mind raced.
"We have to! We have to!" Like a water faucet, tears streamed down her cheeks again.
"Corrie, it's impossible to dig the frozen ground."
"Okay, put her in the freezer. We'll wait for spring."
"Oh no! We can't put Precious with the steaks and burgers."
"Why not? Someone killed a cow and we put the meat in our freezer."
My stomach did a double back flip. Think or a cat would soon be nestled next to tomorrow night's dinner. Somewhere cold until spring. Not the garage - animals will get her. Definitely not my freezer, but where?
"Can't we put her in the camper? It's cold in there." Leave it to a six-year-old to out-think me.
"The camper. Yeah, we could put her in one of those plastic boxes in the closet."
We reached an acceptable solution for the current crisis.
In the spring, we held a proper burial for Precious.
A few weeks later, Dad suggested taking the kids camping, which introduced another crisis.
Our eleven-year-old daughter screwed up her face. "Camping? In the camper? Are you crazy, Dad?"
"Cool! I can tell my friends we slept in a morgue," our thirteen-year-old son offered.
My stomach did a double flip. The thought of sleeping in a morgue was worse than a cat in my freezer.
Two days later, I placed an ad to sell the camper. We needed a bigger one anyhow.
Hostility filled the air. My precocious six-year-old stood defiantly in front of her father,waving her tiny finger, and stomping her foot.
"You killed Precious." She hurled the accusation in his face.
"I didn't kill your cat," he snapped. Anger colored his face crimson.
"You said the next time she peed on your shoes, you'd kill her."
"Oh my God, I didn't kill that stupid cat." Shaking his head, he stormed past me. "Do something with your daughter."
My mouth dropped open, "My daughter?"
"When she's impossible, she's your daughter." Glaring at her, he grabbed his coat and left.
She crumpled into my arms, sobbing. "He killed her. I know he did."
The next hour, I consoled, explained, and reassured her that her father didn't kill Precious, our 13-year-old cat. She was old and it was just her time to go.
Sniffling, she agreed to accept my explanation and move on, creating problem number two.
"We have to give her a funnel, Mom."
"A funnel?" I raised my eyebrow questioningly.
"Yeah, like Grandma. Put her in the ground."
"A funeral. It's winter. We can't dig a grave." My mind raced.
"We have to! We have to!" Like a water faucet, tears streamed down her cheeks again.
"Corrie, it's impossible to dig the frozen ground."
"Okay, put her in the freezer. We'll wait for spring."
"Oh no! We can't put Precious with the steaks and burgers."
"Why not? Someone killed a cow and we put the meat in our freezer."
My stomach did a double back flip. Think or a cat would soon be nestled next to tomorrow night's dinner. Somewhere cold until spring. Not the garage - animals will get her. Definitely not my freezer, but where?
"Can't we put her in the camper? It's cold in there." Leave it to a six-year-old to out-think me.
"The camper. Yeah, we could put her in one of those plastic boxes in the closet."
We reached an acceptable solution for the current crisis.
In the spring, we held a proper burial for Precious.
A few weeks later, Dad suggested taking the kids camping, which introduced another crisis.
Our eleven-year-old daughter screwed up her face. "Camping? In the camper? Are you crazy, Dad?"
"Cool! I can tell my friends we slept in a morgue," our thirteen-year-old son offered.
My stomach did a double flip. The thought of sleeping in a morgue was worse than a cat in my freezer.
Two days later, I placed an ad to sell the camper. We needed a bigger one anyhow.
 Recognized |
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Based on a true story long ago.....
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