I’m not positive that I’ve officially crawled out of my blog funk, but I may be on the up and out. I kind of feel like Jesus, wearing an “I love blogging” t-shirt, trapped in a cave by a huge boulder. A boulder compiled of the lack of motivation, the lack of energy, the lack of creativity, the lack of anything good to say.
And today is my Easter.
No, not funny? Inappropriate? Whatever.
I was quite humbled when I had fans, <sarcasm>I mean thousands upon thousands of them</sarcasm> ask if the Stanga Train had run out of steam. I wouldn’t necessarily say it ran out of steam, as there is way too much dysfunction to ever… I.MEAN.EVER. … run out of steam. I’d rather say that the train stopped and the conductor stepped down from the engine and spent some serious time in the bar … or something like that.
With all that bullshit being said above, I have declared that it is time to dust off my tales *cough cough* because I’ve got an excellent come-back blog in the works.
Well, on a Monday back in May, one of our beloved feline friends bit the dust. After much debate and many tears and a shit ton of cheers from my dad and me , it was time to put dialysis cat Maxie down. The word down is about to have a whole new meaning for you folks.
As a reminder, Maxie was my grandmother’s cat that lived with us for 5 {count ‘em: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5} years after my grandma passed away. By the time Maxie had reached the youthful age of 18 years old, he had already expended his checking account left by grandma (this is 100% true…and you wonder why my mom is bat-shit crazy) had been receiving daily dialysis treatments on our pool table in the triage center for two years, and had managed to slim up for bikini season by dropping from twenty+ el-bees to about seven.
Since Maxie was only our temporary pet and really belong to my beloved maternal grandmother, it was only appropriate that he rest in peace with her, correct?
Are you reading between the lines yet?
Well, small problem. Or a long distance problem actually. The Roberts duo is buried in Covington, LA – a small suburb on the north shore of New Orleans.
If you are shaking your head no, thinking there is no possible way that The Train is hauling a dead cat 8 hours in a car to New Orleans, let me introduce us.
We’re the Stanga’s.
So, as creepy/weird/completely jacked up as it would be to travel with a cat corpse in the car, it would have made this little gem of a story that much better. But no worries, the cat was at least in the ash-form.
Okay, so in my head I’m thinking:
Maybe it’s not totally ridiculous to travel 8 hours with a dead cat to a graveyard if we’re only going to sprinkle the ashes on top of the grave.
Then I was overwhelmed with reality. Unlike my blogging, the train doesn’t stop there.
Oh.My.God. NO!!!!
Leslie, what the crap is in your hand?!?!
Is that a shovel?!?!?
Ever been to a cat funeral? Because sure enough, that crazy lady {who claims to be my mother, but I will forever deny it after this} took it upon herself to dig up my grandmother’s grave and bury the cat.
Did you read that closely?
Buried a cat in a human grave.
So, excuse us G-ma, Pardon the Dust!
Pretty sure this is a federal offense, as I don’t really think you can dig up someone’s eternal resting place without earning a shiny pair of matching bracelets.
Anyhoo, this dark feline funeral cloud has a bit of a silver lining.
Apparently, the graveyard maintenance men got a bit confused and placed a “DAD” silk flower arrangement on my grandfather’s grave. There is no way my uncle would have put it there, my aunt lives in Virginia and my mom didn’t put it there – so she felt that it didn’t need to be there. So yes, my mother dug up a grave to bury a cat and she stole funeral mementos!
But, the good thing is, we’ll save some money on flower arrangements when that day comes for my mom to bury daddy on top of the cat who is buried on top of my grandma.
