The ShopCat Saga

A couple of months ago, my stepmom and The Boy rescued a tiny Siamese-mix kitten along the side of the highway. He was a huge mess, scared to death, and horrifically thin, but my stepmom dutifully cleaned him up, fed him, and gave him a home in the shop/barn on their farm. All told, he was healthier, happier, and seemed to be doing fine. She named him ShopCat.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. My dad, preparing for a long day of moving my sister a quarter of the way across the state (Texas, not one of those gnat’s ass eastern states), stumbled out to his truck and started it up. ShopCat, who apparently wasn’t great at selecting hiding places, was immediately sliced to death by the fan blade.

When they got to my house to pick me up, my stepmom was a little shaken. Dad was taking it in stride, which is to say he was largely indifferent. And I renamed him ChopCat to mixed, albeit largely negative reactions.

What are you looking at? Geez, re-read the url, people.