Every year my little one and her husband escape to various destinations right about Memorial Day/Guinniversary—‘cause those dates generally overlap.  And every year I’m in charge of evening pet care at their abode—namely the feeding and watering of four cats and two dogs with a few other tasks thrown in for good measure.  All cats reside inside so litter box cleaning is one of those few other tasks previously referenced.

Since they are currently wandering the streets of Disney World, a trip that began early Monday morning, my duties began Monday evening.  Although they fed and watered everyone, there was the mandatory litter box check and the letting in of one dog for the night.  The other one can’t be trusted for an overnight stay. The dogs were excited to see me—once they realized it was me.  Before that realization they were just obnoxious and loud.  I unlocked the door to the house, allowed them to rush in passed me, and came feet to face with Moe.

Moe is the largest cat they own, one they bottle-fed as a kitten because he was motherless and tiny.  So Moe thinks he’s a people.  Now I am also a cat person, and generally I get along rather well with most of the domesticated ones, but Moe and I have never been fast friends.  He will study me carefully, sniff of my hand offered in friendship, look up at me with his big ‘ole cat eyes, and hiss.  Then he runs off.

That night we went through our usual routine after which I retreated to the back of the house to check the food and water and clean out the litter boxes.  Being a cat, Moe followed me, but at a safe distance, carefully observing my actions.  I filled the food bowls, cleaned out two of the three litter boxes, and began to dismantle the third one.  It needed more litter . . . so I was gonna put in more litter.  It seemed like the obvious thing to do.  But the top was obstinate and uncooperative and the longer I wrestled with it, the closer Moe got.  I was focused on the stupid litter box for which my college degree had not prepared me, so I wasn’t focused on Moe.  At least I wasn’t until he attacked.

Now I’ve never actually been attacked by a cat . . . I take that back.  We have Callie Cat who has a hidden Murder button that I, on occasion, have accidentally activated.  But other than that, most cats will play—perhaps rougher than I might like—but never out and out attack.  Let me just say, if Moe had claws on his front paws (which, thank goodness, he does not), my left foot would have been shredded.

Not content with giving me heart failure, he continued to attack until I managed to get the bag of cat litter between the two of us.  Eventually, I ran him out of the room, closing the door behind him so I could gather my wits—and find a weapon.  Fortunately, hiding in the corner of a closet was a large, heavy cardboard tube containing a map of Middle Earth (at least I think that’s what’s inside).  For the rest of my stay, that tube went everywhere I did, and I never turned my back on Moe.  And for his part, he stalked me throughout the house . . . hiding around corners . . . and behind furniture . . . watching . . . waiting. . .

While barricaded inside the cat room, I texted my daughter to tell her Moe had attacked me and that I was trapped with him growling outside the door (mental pictures came to mind of the guy who called the police because he was trapped in his bathroom . . . or was it his bedroom . . . by an angry cat).  In just a second my phone rang and her first question was “What did you do?!?!?”

Nothing.  I did absolutely nothing out of my normal cat care routine.  Maybe he was anxious because the dogs had barked so much initially.  Maybe he didn’t like the way I was trying to dismember the litter box.  Maybe he could smell my cats on me.  Or maybe he just lost his ever lovin’ mind because his humans had, for all intents and purposes, abandoned him, leaving him at the mercy of this interloper.  I would like to point out that last one would be from his perspective.  His humans made all the arrangements so he would be well cared for and remain at home during their trip.  But he’s a cat.  What does he know?

Fast forward or rewind to life at the funeral home.  We have families who walk through our doors every day, many of them lost in grief.  Most of them have accepted the death and move through the process with grace and, occasionally, humor.  But there are those few who are just angry.  They don’t want to be here, they don’t want to meet with us, and they certainly don’t want to bury or cremate the person they lost.  And all of that is nobody’s fault . . . except the person who died.  If they just hadn’t died then none of this would be necessary.  But it isn’t socially acceptable to yell at dead people.  They can’t lash out at the person who put them in this predicament.  So they take it out on the folks they must deal with at the moment.  That may be the emergency or hospital personnel.  It may be the neighbors or extended family.  And it’s usually the funeral director.  It’s all the people who are trying to help them when they need it but don’t want it.

Fortunately, we get that.  We understand what grief and the stress of loss will do to a person.  And although we don’t enjoy it when we’re on the receiving end of hurtful remarks and actions, we continually remind ourselves, that’s not who this person is.  It’s the grief talking.

With a great deal of fear and trepidation, I ventured back to the House of the Angry Cat on Tuesday.  That evening Moe kept a respectful distance, never offering to attack or even get close.  I spoke kindly and gently (and, for my own peace of mind, carried my giant cardboard tube everywhere I went) and everything was fine.  As it was with Moe so it can often be with people.  When they are confused and angry, when they hurt the most, they need the opportunity to express those emotions.  If you respond in kind, it only makes a bad situation terrible.  But if you offer them kindness and compassion . . . and patience . . . they will eventually return the favor.

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