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If you missed reading the first part of the story here it is…

One day Puff did not show up when I went outside to feed him. That was odd, because He always came to get his grub on. (I know, I know. I am trying to quit that kind of talk, but I am kind of “gansta” since I grew up on the mean streets of Mayberry.) So I broke THE cardinal rule that my mom had set for me – “Do not cross the creek for any reason!” I am not sure why that was such a big deal since the creek was only about six inches deep and about a yard wide. But my cat was missing so I took my Indiana Jones self, put on my cowboy boots and my favorite pair of shorts and crossed the creek and prepared myself for the long journey to the tobacco barn. It was about fifty yards away.

What I found inside the dark, musty old barn was a revelation to me. Lying there on the floor was Puff! Puff was a perfect name for him too, because he was all covered with soot and was a lot fatter than usual. In fact, he was about to burst. Pleased with my discovery and confident that my mom would be proud, I grabbed the bloated feline by the tail and dragged him down the hill, across the creek, and up to the step by the back door of our house. “Mom,” I shouted proudly, “I found Puff!”

I wish you could have seen her face. It was a mixture of horror, disgust, confusion, and prayerful reflection, as in, “Oh God, what is wrong with my male offspring?” She did the best she could to explain death, that Puff was no longer with us, and that I should immediately, but gently, drop the cat before it exploded all over my favorite cowboy boots. She did a great job as the undertaker/minister. Finer words have not been said over a dead cat. Puff was buried with grace and dignity. My mom thought it was over.

It was not over by a long shot.

I will finish the story tomorrow…