Now admittedly, I'm a procrastinator of the first order. But this had me in alternating states of denial and squicky terror all winter and spring: I was held hostage in my house by the carcass of the dead kitten, that I was too chicken to pick up.
But I am not a big girl's blouse. I am not a sissy wussy.
All of its brothers and sisters had been caught and fostered. There was just this one left out there. The more I thought about it, the more I felt it was my responsibility, I couldn't just leave it. Or worse, pass the task off to someone else as if it were a stray piece of refuse.
It finally had to be done. And I had to do it.
I called my mother for moral and spiritual support, threw a bunch of wet paper towels down on top of it, pushed with the broom, scraped with a trowel (it was stuck to the floor boards... (sigh)), bunched plastic garbage bags on top and around it and got it up. All the while mumbling "Poor baby, poor baby, poor baby..." Bag(s) in hand, I fastwalked down the stairs and to the dumpster.
If there is a kitty heaven, it's a nice thought that this stripey baby is there romping around with Speedy while Cleo and Buttercup are looking on. Rest in peace, little one.