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A GRAVE MISTAKE by Jennifer O. Curtis  It’s been said the only sure things in life are death and taxes. However , I came to question that proverbial wisdom when raising my family in Houston, Texas. Our sense of family always included animals , and there have been many through the years. One cat, in particular , is memorable for his ability to have the last word—even from beyond the grave. I first saw him clutched to my daughter’s chest. “He’s a stray,” she said. I looked at the young tom draped carelessly over her arm; the cat blinked and snuggled closer to her. The kids named him Mr. Peabody, reflecting a certain dignity and aloofness he had. I didn’t realize it at the time that this was the pet that would be the constant in a changing household. He became the children’s confidant and counselor, silent witness to their outpourings of frustration as they grew up, his fur bedraggled with their tears. He was also a con artist with the children and my husband, allowing them the privilege of petting him while gazing adoringly into their faces and purring loudly and contentedly at their slightest croon. But with me, he declared war. It was snarl at second sight. He would walk by, look at me and HSST. He never heard of the old saying, “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” Usually a silent stare declared his hunger, but if that didn’t work, a nip at the heels herded me along. If he was ravenous , he would rub against my legs while gazing up sweetly, and then bite my legs. As a rule, our animals knew enough to stay out of the kitchen when I was busy preparing a meal for the eight of us in the family. Not Mr. Peabody. He’d slip into the kitchen, sit silently behind me, and carefully lay his tail behind my heels. If I stepped back, he would erupt with a screech, bat his ears back and stalk the kitchen, 169 slapping his tail from side to side. If I screeched when I stepped back, juggling whatever I was holding, his HSST would be accompanied by a backward glance and smirk that seemed to say, “Gotcha.” It didn’t take much provocation for his historic HSST to erupt. My presence was enough. Just letting him out the door at his request was cause for a backward glance, snarl, and HSST. The cat didn’t wait to grow old to get crotchety—he was born badtempered , except for when he was around the children or my husband , or when he wanted to be fed. He kept himself remarkably clean, considering the amount of fighting he was engaged in. His skin shown pink through the snowy fur of his tummy; the black, brown, and gray motley markings capping his head and back glistened with his careful, constant grooming . His purr rattled unevenly to the depth of his contented sighs. As self-appointed guardian of the family, he accompanied the children on their bike rides, escorted the ex-bikers adorned in their prom gowns, and resided over the wedding parties. With age, his fur lost its glisten and seemed to grow in clumps. He would sit, swaying from side to side, almost sightless and hard of hearing. His HSST and paw swing were less vigorous if I screeched as I stumbled over him, but he still smirked over his shoulder and slapped his tail from side to side as if he were saying, “Gotcha.” The vet told us we had a choice. We bought him a little time, but the day came when he took his last breath in my arms. We aren’t pet cemetery folk, nor do we place beloved companions in garbage cans. We picked a corner of the yard to bury him, away from people traffic and tree roots. A gully washer rain began as my husband picked up the shovel. Half an hour later, he staggered into the house, gasping for breath. “Those tree roots are longer than I thought, and that gumbo is terrible. . . . It’s so dark I can’t see a thing. . . . I hope I’m digging deep enough.” Lightening flared as he went out to finish the job. 170 Superstitions, Strange Stories, and Voices from the “Other Side” After the storm, I went to make a phone call, but the line was dead. I told the family that the storm had...

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