The Big Cement Mixer In the Sky

And so it has happened. While my dad was visiting us this weekend, the cat finally shuffled his mortal coil. While I am completely and inappropriately relieved, my ire over two points has me seeing red.

My mom is devastated and still will not talk about it. Apparently, when she woke up Tuesday morning, the cat was "completely incapacitated". Then, and only then, did she take him to the vet to be put down. I am irked because the poor thing had been suffering for weeks, and my parents refused to do anything to ease his pain. Why in the world she had to wait until he was incapacitated to do anything proactive is beyond the scope of my comprehension.

Horror of horrors, I am completely disgusted by the second point. My father, having come home the same afternoon as the trip to the feline death panel, sunk the poor thing in concrete. Just like he promised. Right now, somewhere in my parents' garage is a macabre geode waiting for strategic burial in the backyard. There is not enough coffee in the world to get me through a morning phone call bearing this kind of news.