The Death of Fluffy

My first experience with death was with Fluffy. Fluffy was our first pet, a nondescript, generic gray cat that as far as I recall never called much attention to him- (or her-?) self. But one morning, as my all-too-typical 1950s family (me about 8, my sister 6, my parents in their 30s) was getting ready for school and work, a horrific primal scream came from beneath the swivel rocking chair in our living room as my father sat down to read the paper.  Apparently Fluffy had settled unaware under the chair, and when my father sat and leaned back, the chair crushed down on Fluffy’s neck and . . . well, Fluffy began flailing about, gray fur flying, my sister and I and Fluffy all shrieking. My parents found a cardboard box and dispatched Fluffy into it, thrashing about, bouncing off the sides of the box, sounding pretty much like a furry tympani. At least that’s the way I like to remember Fluffy’s last moments, musically. I think he (or she) was taken to meet his (or her) maker in that box as my sister and I were sent off to school. And that’s all I remember of Fluffy. As I recall, our next family pet was a dog. Life goes on. And death is a part of it.