The brown fluff of fur lay still on the curb, and a sick wave of recognition washed over me as I drove up.
I knew it was Lola.
My girls heard me crying there at the wheel as I sat at the intersection in our minivan unable to hit the gas pedal.
I knew I didn’t want them to find out about their kitty the way I did, so I collected myself and drove on to our destination deciding to tell them there.
Their reaction was as expected, and we bagged our desperate need for groceries in favor of going straight back home and doing what needed to be done.
It was a sad walk back over to the intersection, and my son and I, with a shovel and a wheelbarrow, dealt with the death on the curb.
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