LatinosUSA

The cold autumn wind rustling through the many trees made a sound like parched bones rattling in a dried, brittle skeleton. The few remaining birds fluttered away as the brown, papery, deeply-veined leaves tossed to and fro. A light rain began to fall. Below the canopy of leaves stood two children, mutely observing the body of their pet cat.

“Why don’t she move, Heidi?” asked the dark-haired boy, age four, in a puzzled voice.

“Butters’s dead, Wyatt,” replied the girl, who at eleven was far wiser and more sophisticated than her brother. And knew it. The animal in question, Mrs. Buttersworth, aka Butters, moved not a muscle, having made peace with her Maker.

They stood in silence for a moment. Traffic along the nearby road hummed by at their backs

“What kilt her?” asked the little boy at last. Peering closely at the tiny body, Heidi bit her lower lip, then replied, “Looks like she got hit by a car.”

“Who kilt Butters?” he demanded next.

“I don’t know, Wyatt. Lots of people just don’t like cats.”

Wyatt said nothing. Heidi gazed at her brother, grew concerned at his continued silence. Dead leaves danced across their shoes, propelled by the wind.

“I know what, Wyatt,” she said, feigning excitement. “We’ll have to bury Butters; why don’t we give her a funeral? We can have flowers, and a service, and say a prayer, and–”

“Heidi,” he said scornfully. “She’s just a cat!” and then turned away. He sniffed, then a single tear rolled down his cheek and dropped off into space.

“Yeah, Wyatt, Mrs. Buttersworth was just a cat.” And taking his little hand tightly in hers, they set off slowly for home.