Elderly Irene found her sick sister dead. Deceased. Spent. On the other side. Kaput. Expired. Departed. At Saint Peter’s gate. Extinguished. Terminated. Gone to glory.
Lucille had bought the farm. Woodsily sat at her cold feet meowing, the sound that brought Irene into Lucille’s room in the first place — devoted Woodsily yowling. Irene blotted her eyes on the cat’s ample white fur and stroked her older sister’s cantankerous face. Irene bunched a hand knitted comforter around the stiffening corpse and prayed. Off to meet her maker and happily so. What heart Lucille had left, gave out.

Irene swept the bottles of pills off the side table, a final act of mourning, and waited for the day nurse to arrive before she made the necessary calls. Irene scanned the letter her sister left. It said to gather the family and contact her attorney before the funeral.

A square, bloated lawyer, with long, blonde, greasy hair, whose name could have been Sneezy or Dopey, read the document to the group. They assumed Irene would get the most. But several nieces existed who wanted their cut. Lucille’s property included the house, two apartment buildings and a couple of million dollars.

After the reading, the group sat stunned.

The pie-face attorney snapped his suspenders, figuring the relatives needed an explanation.
“Ya’ll, she means you gotta kill the cat. Lucille wanted to be buried with her cat. It’s as simple as that. No cat in heaven, no moolah on earth.”

Irene’s dentures dangled. “Woodsily? You can’t mean it?”

“Yep.”

“Is this legal?”

“Yep. And, believe me, people, I’ve seen stranger.”

“I love the cat. The cat loved Lucille. How could she want him dead?”

“She wants company,” the lawyer wheezed. “If you forfeit everything to the Hiller Museum, you don’t have to kill the cat.”

Irene snapped. “Quit saying ‘kill’. Say ‘euthanize’.”

“Alright. Euthanize. You have 24 hours to get the cat into Lucille’s coffin. We meet here tomorrow morning with or without kitty. With or without a few mil.” Clearly the gelatinous lawyer wanted his fee.

“But Woodsily is young and healthy. This proves Lucille lost her mind towards the end.”

“Kill the damn cat and get another one. Cats are all alike anyway.’

“Shut up. You aren’t even blood.”

And so the argument raged throughout the evening, while Irene clutched Woodsily lest anyone get ideas.

The relatives would not leave but intended to spend the night, so Irene locked herself and the cat in the upstairs apartment, while the mob circulated below. She petted the silky Himalayan. Woodsily never hissed, nor hid, but was always friendly and loving. Irene couldn’t kill the cat. Not even for a million dollars. But it wasn’t her decision alone.

Cat under her arm, she sneaked out of the house, down the fire ladder.

Near midnight, Irene stamped down the stairs, dead cat in hand.

“There.” She laid out the body. “That toad lawyer wants a dead cat. Well, here one is.”

The relatives gawked.

“Aunt Irene, this is a female, short-haired, black cat.”

“So? What’s your point.”

“This cat looks like it’s been hit by a car.”

Irene stared at the squashed animal. “Nothing a little cleaning up won’t fix. I found worse.”

A niece laughed. “Lawyer has never seen Woodsily. Upon my oath, this cat is her.”

The rest joined. “Upon our oath.”

A black cat, smashed side down, rested on white satin pillows beside Lucille Granger. In front of the tableau stood a Styrofoam plaque, covered in plastic roses, with a fake phone attached. The inscription read, “Jesus called.”