The basic wonderfulness of my husband has been established.
This week, my busiest of the year, he has been especially wonderful: making supper every night, hanging out with Zoe and putting her to bed while I’m at church, hopping out of bed at 1 AM to tend to her mysterious late night ailments. He’s a peach.
But this morning, he really proved his greatness.
When I came home from dropping Zoe off at her preschool Easter party, I found a cat lying in the driveway. And you know how sometimes, you just know that something is lying down not because it’s sunning itself, but because it’s . . . well, dead?
I parked on the street, called, “Hey, kitty!” in a sad little voice, and walked in a wide arc around the cat, hoping against hope to see its chest rise and fall with breath.
Then I walked into the house and had this conversation:
Me: “There’s a cat in the driveway.”
Mike: “I know.”
Me: “I think it’s dead.”
Mike: “I think so, too.”
Like a champ, Mike called the city and learned that what you do with a dead cat is . . . throw it away. So out he went with a plastic bag and . . . let’s spare ourselves the details, shall we?
I’m sorry about the kitty, who I think was a feral cat. I wish he had spent his last moments somewhere nicer than our driveway.
But mostly, I’m glad I have a husband who knows that any dead cats in the driveway are 100% his responsibility.