A friend is someone who knows where all your bodies are buried.  Because they’re the ones who helped you put them there.

–Jenny Lawson’s dad


This morning, a dark, dreary Monday, was a perfect day for death.

The Devil handed me a shovel and through the mud and muck I followed him to bury the body.  My rainboots were too cheerful for the occasion, but I wore them anyway, grey pajama pants tucked into the rims. Fuck Prada, The Devil wore work boots because he’s practical like that. The ground was squishy and sucked at the rubber soles. The wind flung leftover raindrops from tree leaves as he dug a shallow grave.

Hellcat (aka Baki, Lili, and Zombie Cat) was intimidating for such a soft, fluffy creature.  She packed a surprising amount of viciousness in her little frame. She would attack anyone and everyone who was within claw distance without the slightest provocation. In her heyday, she groomed incessantly.  When she wasn’t grooming she pranced around and preened to show off her fluffy coat.  Her favorite pastime was to jump into the laps of unsuspecting guests as if she wanted affection and then lash out the moment a hand was raised to pet her. Maybe she was just misunderstood.  One thing is for sure, she loved The Devil.

Hellcat’s final resting place is under the trees near the broken fence, just beyond the pond. RIP Baby Kitty.


Perhaps the best cure for the fear of death is to reflect that life has a beginning as well as an end.  There was a time when you were not: that gives us no concern. Why then should it trouble us that a time will come when we shall cease to be? To die is only to be as we were before we were born.

–William Hazlitt