How Lucky Can You Be?

Mistaken Identity

A couple in the United Kingdom received a shock after burying what they thought was their pet cat, Lucky.

Sam and Danielle Smith of Birmingham, England were informed by a neighbor that a black and white cat had been killed after it was apparently hit by a car. Lucky had the markings described to the Smiths, so Sam went to identify the animal. After seeing the cat, Sam was certain it was their 11-month-old pet.

Sam brought the deceased feline home in a potato sack at which point Danielle broke down and fell to the floor in despair.

‘We opened the sack so you could see the neck down, the body of the cat and the markings were exactly the same,” Danielle told the Daily Mail. I was stroking him. I went to look at his face which wasn’t very nice but I wanted to make sure.

“I had blood all over my hands from stroking him, I was talking to him saying sorry, telling him I couldn’t believe it had happened and that I loved him.”

Later, Sam dug a grave and the Smiths held a small funeral ceremony for the cat, placing a headstone that was inscribed ‘Lucky 14/5/22 RIP’.

The following day, Danielle was still in tears at her retail job when she received a picture on Snapchat. Now Danielle was crying for joy. The photo was of Lucky who was eating his breakfast after walking in the house.

That raised a big question, who’s cat had the Smith’s buried?

“I was thinking, ‘Which cat’s blood did I have all over my hands,’ and whose cat did I mourn,” Danielle said.

With the help of Facebook, Danielle tracked down the owner of the cat the Smiths had placed in a grave.

“I know it sounds weird but I asked her if she wanted us to dig him up so she can bury or cremate him. She said leave him to rest if that’s ok so we’ve planted some seeds there,” Lucky’s human mom said.

“There’s a good reason why we don’t let you out,” I said to our cat Chester, who was a little confused by the story I just read to him.

“I guess that’s a good reason,” Chester said. I watch those cars and trucks drive by the house and never think what they can do to a cat.”

“By the way, ” Chester began, “If I die, which isn’t going to happen, how would you bury me?”

“That’s your call,” I said. “Do you have a will?”

I knew that was a silly question but I wanted to see where this was going.

“What’s a will,” the curious tabby asked.

“A will states how you want to divide up your property, how you would like to be buried and who’s responsible for making sure your wishes are carried out,” I said in my most legal voice.

“I appoint you as that person who takes care of everything,” Chester said cheerfully, because he was never going to die. “I want all my kibble buried with me and you and the rest of your family can have all my cat toys and scratching post. As for you big guy, I’ll make sure my litter box goes straight to you, filled of course.”

“I’m honored,” I said.

“You should be,” snapped Chester. “Also, I happened to see on TV some show about this funeral stuff and they had a big parade for the dead person. Someone named king or something like that. What a show that was. That’s what I want, so write that down in my will, scribe.”

“Anything else,” I asked. Big mistake.

“Yeah,” said Chester suddenly excited about planning the funeral he never could imagine would ever occur. The king person was in a huge building, I think they called it a cat-theedral.”

“You mean cathedral,” I semi-asked, semi-corrected my cat head of state.

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m a cat, so it’s a cat-theedral,” responded our cat. “You think I’m having this grand event at a dog park? Don’t interrupt me while I’m dictating my majestic ceremony.

“My favorite music will be played at the cat-theedral; “Eye of the Tiger”, “Pads, Paws & Claws”, and “What’s New Pusscat” to name a few.

“I’ll need a few hundred soldiers lining the street, several on horseback with swords. I’ll be inside a beautiful cat box within a horse-drawn carriage driven by cats of course. As I’m carried down the street you wouldn’t let me on while I was alive, millions of mourners will throw pieces of kibble in front of the carriage.”

“Are we done,” I asked.

“No,” yelled Chester. “I want a 21-gun salute as they lay me to rest. Of course, those 21 guns are pointed at 21 stupid dogs. But don’t worry, they won’t fire bullets. In my magnanimous way out, they’ll all get doggy treats. Might as well bury the hatchet so to speak while they bury me.”

“Sounds like a nice wake,” I said.

“How can I be awake if I’m dead,” a puzzled Chester asked.

“No, no Chester. A wake is where your family and friends get together to pay their respects where sometimes the deceased lies in an open casket,” I explained. In your case our family and whoever else shows up. Then there is much drinking and eating as the gathered reminisce about you. I assume you’ll warn your new dog friends that the honorary detail is shooting doggie treats at them and not live ammo.”

“Sure, that’s only fair,” Chester said dolefully. “If I’m dead and can’t see those scared dog faces, no reason to put them through that.”

“We’re done,” I insisted. “Do me a big favor Chester and don’t die. I couldn’t take all the hubbub.”

“I can do that,” Chester said proudly.