I try really hard not to fall into the trap of “gossip”, especially since we southern women are stereotypically cast into the assumption pit of automatically doing it.  However, there are those moments, rare that they are (tongue in cheek), when my senses take leave and my lips are somehow disconnected from my brain….and, well, I, um, say things I shouldn’t about someone…

So the case was one day when talking to my dear, dear friend Pat.  It was one of those conversations, some 3 or 4 years ago back in our old neighborhood before moving to the dirt road that led to my making a statement about a particular neighbor.  I made my statement and life went on, albeit, I sensed a “hovering” in my mind of my pitfall to gossip.

I love cats!  I love my cat, Max.  And my cat, Max, loves me.  Well, I just love him.  And because we have had too many prior cat tragedies, Max was forbidden to go outside.  He was a garage and house kitty.  Unfortunately, this led to many dictated episodes about “where’s the cat?”, “is the cat in the garage or in the house?”, “I need to open the garage, get Max in,” “Don’t let Max out until I get in the car and close the garage back,” etc., etc.  You get the picture.

One early evening on a non-specific day, I needed a couple of things from the grocery store to finish dinner.  As usual, we went through the “where’s Max?” routine and out the door, into the car and off to the store I went.  It was about dusk and just beginning to get dark when I returned from the grocery store just down the street.  As I turned into the entrance of our subdivision, there was Max draped across the curb having just been hit by a car only minutes prior to my returning home.  I was frozen.  I was devastated.

I stopped and parked the car just inside the subdivision entrance and got out to collect my beloved cat.  I began to cry as I cradled my lifeless and limp tabby cat.

Then I heard her voice.

“Oh Harriette, what has happened?”

It was the neighbor.

The very neighbor that I gossiped about when my senses vacated my brain only days before.

Now, I was wailing.

My cat, who was not supposed to be out of the house, got out of the house and is now dead and the person who arrives at the scene to offer grief counseling is the neighbor I gossiped about.

The mucus was flowing.

She continued to try and console me but I wailed louder and waved her away, placing my dead and limp Max into my car and driving the rest of the way home.

When I bolted through the door I am certain the hinges came loose.  “WHO let Max out?” I was wailing.  “Where is Max?”  The boys were running around knowing that Mom was having a major “moment”.  They both started asking me what was wrong and I kept asking where Max was while crying.

My husband flew out of his office demanding to know what I had lost my mind about this time.  Through my tears I told them that Max was dead and I had him out in my car.

Time seemed to stand still and all that could be heard were my drama sobs in the front foyer of our home.  Then my oldest son, who had been running around upstairs looking for my deceased cat, slowly walked down the stairs…...

.......carrying my cat, Max, alive and well.

I brought home someone else’s dead cat.

Needless to say, I could feel the Bride of Frankenstein gray streaks emerging that very moment from my temples.  I cannot begin to describe the blinking looks on the faces of my family.  Since it was evening and dark and Max clearly had a twin, they didn’t have me hauled away to a padded cell.  But suffice to say it has taken some time to reclaim my position in the family.

But it wasn’t over.

Later that evening, “the Neighbor” called to check on me.

My husband answered the phone and she launched into her consoling conversation of concern and compassion for me and described the all too tragic scene where she came upon me in the street with what I believed was my dead cat.  The beloved man that I am married to allowed the neighbor, who never knew I had gossiped about her, to continue her story until she finally asked, “So how is Harriette?”

“It wasn’t her cat,” he flatly stated.

“What?  What do you mean?” she asked.

Without further ado, he replied, “I mean it wasn’t her cat.  She brought home the wrong dead cat.”

I was in the next room and could hear the incredulous laughter erupt on the phone between my husband and the neighbor.  “Okay, okay,” I thought, “this is what I deserve for not being able to control my tongue.”

The next day, I happened to glance out the window and noticed that our mailbox was slightly opened.  It was way too early for the mail to have been delivered and I was still shell-shocked over my episode from the evening before.  I reluctantly walked down the driveway to the mailbox and upon opening it, I discovered some sort of garment or fabric that had been stuffed into our mailbox.  It was a tee shirt and when I unfolded it, across the back it read,”

“HAVE YOU SEEN MY CAT?”

My scarlet letter had arrived in my mailbox and I laughed out loud. 

Touché, Lord.

I wore it that very night to the ball park for our sons’ games in a mental effort to acknowledge my shortcomings.  I still wear it.  It serves as my reminder that I am merely a human being (...flying by the seat of her pants...) continuing to struggle and that I still fall way, way short of the Glory of God.

And if and when I get too high and mighty ~ all wrapped up in myself, I know all too well, I'll most likely be bringing home someone else’s dead cat.

Harriette K. Jacobs

Copyright © 2005

All Rights Reserved.