Lost kitty sadness

I thought of a conversation I had with my granddaughter about a year ago, and if I haven't already written about it I at least want to get it archived. It was one of those moments with a grandchild and one of those observations from a young mind that needs to be recorded, even if it does reveal what a horrible human being I turned out to be.

We had the out-of-town grandkids here for a day while their parents worked. The day was fun and R took the kids to the park (one direction) and the school playground (the other direction) so they could run and play. They had a great time, but on the way back from the school playground our eldest granddaughter, who was probably four at the time, saw a neighborhood notice tacked to a light pole on our corner that featured a picture of a lost cat. She couldn't read it, but she loves, loves, loves cats, so she asked about it. R told her that the sign was telling people in the area that a family in the neighborhood lost their cat so we should watch for it and then call them if found.

When R got home with the kids, he told me about the sign and that our little granddaughter was really worried about the kitty. He had told her about the sign without thinking about her sensitive nature and how much she loved cats. We tried to reassure her that the kitty would be fine and the family was sure to find it, but it clearly troubled her that a kitty was lost.

Later in the afternoon, it was time to meet our son-in-law in the town where he works about 30 minutes away. We had our usual mad dash to pull together all of the things that arrived with the kids, and then tried to hurry them into the van for the trip. While loading the three kids into the van, our granddaughter asked us if we could go look for the kitty first. Distracted, I told her we didn't have time now but would be sure to look for it later when we got back to town.

"But I'm really worried about the kitty, Gigi," she said.

"It will be okay, we'll look all around when we get back and will keep our eyes open when we are driving," I lied.

There was silence for a few minutes, and as we are pulling out of our driveway a voice from the back of the van said, "Gigi, if I lost my kitty, I would be so sad."

Dagger to the heart. "I know, it would be very sad, but the family is looking and putting out signs and I'm sure they will find their kitty." My god, now I'm worried about the cat....

The little darling was silent for a bit, and we headed towards the interstate. Then, "Gigi, do you know what would make me even more sad? If the kitty that got lost was a girl kitty."

Oh dear lord I'm going to cry. "I know, honey. It would be really hard to lose a girl kitty. I'm sure the kitty will be found though...." I should have been struck by lightning.

A few more miles, and then the final, four-year-old blow, "Gigi? You know it would be even more sad if it was a baby girl kitty that was lost. I would be really, really sad then."

My heart ached and then I believe broke. I wanted to find that damn cat whose flight was devastating my beautiful granddaughter. I couldn't cry in front of her, but her empathy for the lost kitty was killing me, even though it was a humbling and dear thing to witness.

"It would be hard to lose a baby girl kitty, sweetheart. It would be so sad but I'm sure the kitty will be fine. You would be very, very good at taking care of kitties," which I knew was way more than I could say for myself. I'm not sure I would have even thought to post a sign.

She settled in and enjoyed the rest of the trip, while my heart ached and tugged. Later that night, I told her mother about the lost kitty and she reacted much the same way. The empathy nearly undid us both, but then she told me we needed to be proactive on the next visit. If she asked, we were to tell her the kitty was found and if needed, remove the damn sign on the corner post.

An act that would simultaneously reserve me a spot in heaven and then off to serve a fiery sentence in hell.