OBITS
Some people think death comes in threes–like when Mother Theresa died, and then Princess Di, and then…well, someone else, but I can’t remember who. I used to think it was all a bunch of crap, but after last week, I’m not so sure.
Things started going downhill early Tuesday morning. I was making my usual post-coffee, post-email, pre-shower stroll through the yard (which I’ll continue to do until July, when it gets just too damn hot). I casually peeked into my makeshift water garden and saw one of the goldfish I’d bought the week before floating on its back. The two surviving fish hovered on the opposite side of the cast-iron tub, presumably too shocked from their loss to call a funeral home. I scooped him (or her) out of the water and had the gayest little funeral anyone would ever want to see. Tania officiated.
The next day I arrived at work and saw our CFO and a security guard peering at something on the ground near the front gate. I thought maybe it was a sick dog or a wounded pigeon, but in fact it was a snake–a king snake, to be exact, and the first wild snake I’ve ever seen in Orleans Parish. Having been raised partially on a farm, I wasn’t particularly worried about the guy (or girl), but the CFO doesn’t like snakes, and he wanted it moved. We called the SPCA, but as you can imagine, they’re still overworked and completely understaffed. Prodding it with a yardstick, I tried for half an hour to get the snake to slide on across the road, over to a drainage ditch where he (or she) could wallow about in peace, but it wasn’t working. In the end, despite my reservations, the poor thing had to be killed.
Karma must’ve been hard at work that day, ’cause an hour later, Jonno called, sounding very upset. The kitten–who’d been unbearably cute all the previous evening, curled up by his feet as he worked–wasn’t moving or breathing. I dropped what I was doing, dashed home, and sure enough, Little Edie was dead in her box. I have no idea why, but given the somewhat depressing life she’d already led in her month and a half on Earth–including two abandonments by her mother–it’s probably for the best. Here’s the last photo I took of her, curled up in Tania’s bowl:
I’m beginning to get the feeling that naming someone “Edie”–as in Little Edie, Big Edie, Edie Sedgewick, Edith Massey (aka Edie)–is a self-fulfilling prophecy. And not in the good way.
Rest in peace, Little Edie. Poor thing.
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