Fame is Fleeting

One of the farm cats died a few days ago. It was very sad, to me. No one else seemed to care much. They just said, "Aw, Poor Moe," and kept eating their popsicles. This was the cat who won 3rd Best In Show last Summer at the county fair!!! How quickly we do forget.

Moe had a short funeral. He was only buried because he decided to kick the bucket in the bushes by the front door and had, overnight, increased the local fly population exponentially. And there was the horrid stench, too. Really, REALLY vile... about as bad as that rotten egg.

I didn't know this before living out here, but the life of a farm cat is unnaturally short (or that of city cats unnaturally long). No nine lives for them. As he was laid to rest, I tried to ignore the comments of the seasoned farm-cat undertakers. "Too bad the coyotes didn't get him." "Yeah, or the swather." "Or a passing truck." "Yup, then we wouldn't have had to bury him." This is how most other cats around the farm met their demise.

But the circle of life continues. There is a cute new little kitten around these days.