Cat’s in the Crisper

Cat’s in the Crisper

by Weyland Smith

 

Syn flew back from the Halloween Convention in Massachusetts straight to Mom’s apartment.  She’d been watching Syn’s old cat, Midnight, while she was gone, and Syn was anxious to retrieve him.

 

Mom’s words of greeting were, “The cat’s in the crisper.”

 

It took Syn a second tocatchon: “What?”

 

“Your cat.  He didn’t wake up yesterday.  I didn’t want to spoil your party, so I put him in the freezer until you got back.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Can you take him tonight?  He’s kind of creeping me out there in the fridge next to my food.”

 

“Uh, sure.”  Syn blinked, then firmed up.  She and her sister had always buried their pets in a field at the edge of town.  It was like a tradition.  Syn glanced at her wrist.  Late enough so as not to attract unwanted attention.  The field was on the way home.  It was doable.  “I’ll take him right now.”

 

“Thanks.”  Mom stepped aside to let her in.  “So, how was your party?”

 

“Uneventful.”

***

Syn groaned, “Houston, we have a problem.”

 

The field was gone.  Or more precisely, replaced with a large parking lot occupied by a small apartment building.

 

Her eyes scanned the area darkly, then lit up.  A small garden decorated with flowers and saplings was planted where the old burial plot had been.  She and Midnight could still do business.

 

Syn tucked the black-wrapped bundle under her arm and hurried over to the garden.  She held a shovel in her other hand.  This wouldn’t take long…

***

It didn’t.  In a moment she was down far enough to safely place Midnight’s remains.  Syn closed her eyes to bid her friend goodbye.

 

“Lady, what are you doing?”

 

Syn looked over her shoulder.  A security guard, hands on hips, looking mean.

 

“I’m burying my cat.”

 

“Here? This is private property!”

 

“It’s like a tradition.”

 

“Lady, I don’t care what you call this, it’s illegal as frack!”

 

“Great verdict, Matlock.  By the way, your uniform’s dirty.”

 

“Thanks for noticing.  Aren’t you a little old for costumes?”

 

“This isn’t a costume.”  Syn raised a hand and snapped her fingers.  The guard froze.  “I just got here.  How’d you find me?”

 

“Saw you in the cameras.”

 

“Anybody else see me?”

 

“Just me.”

 

“Go back, erase the video, then forget this ever happened.”

 

“Okay.”  He turned on his heel and went back toward the building.

 

Syn pointed at the tiny gravesite and snapped her fingers again.  It filled itself in with dirt.  She tamped it down with her shovel, then shook the blade off and changed the shovel back into a broomstick.

 

“Goodbye, old friend,” she murmured, and flew back home.

About the Author

 

Weyland Smith is an eclectic wytch who writes the column “Weyland’s Whey” for the Pagan Pages blog.  Wey can be reached at [email protected]