A Black Cat in October
(from the book Undertakings of an Undertaker)

      It was a terrific fall day in mid-October. The sky was brilliant blue, and white rolling clouds raced from west to east as the afternoon’s late day sun moved to make its exit over the crimson maple tree out front.  The afternoon’s calling hours had gone quite well, and a good number of people had shown up to pay their respects to the current occupant of the reposing room.  It was my usual  practice to be at the front door to open and close, greet people as they entered, asking for their wraps when appropriate, and to point out the register stand which would  accept their signature for the family.   And so the afternoon was gone. The family had left the funeral home; now it was time to pick up, run the vacuum, check the restroom, check the deceased, yes, check the deceased.  It was not unusual that during calling hours, visitors would place things in the casket or even on the deceased.  Those items could range from notes, to playing cards, to more bizarre items.  Once, years before, I had found a note, wide open, telling the deceased that he still owed the visitor some money, but not to worry about it!  That note was folded and neatly tucked into the man’s suit. The family wouldn't need to be aware of that one.   I learned several years before to expect almost anything at any time, and that was the rule in funeral service. 

      The brief two hour break between the afternoon and evening sets of calling hours really wasn’t lengthy enough for any time to rest.  A quick bite to eat, quicker shave and perhaps a clean shirt, and it was back at the front door, ready to greet the family as they returned for the evening calling hours.  The porch, step and sidewalk lights were all lit and generated a warm glow, leading from the street to the funeral home entrance. A brief wind gust blew autumn leaves across the walkway as the family entered and went into the parlor to await the evening’s visitors.  Evenings were usually quite busy at the funeral home. People were done with work, had had dinner and were accustomed to visit, view the deceased, and sign the register book. It was tradition, tradition that had gone on for decades in small towns and cities all over the country. 

    

    As I stood at the entrance chatting with an old friend, I looked out the front door and saw a black cat making its way up the sidewalk. His devilish eyes shined from the walkway lights as he swaggered his way up the sidewalk, up the four steps and to the front door. He paused. I opened the door to step out, but before I could, he stepped in!  Not stopping, the cat made a quick left, walked past the register stand and straight toward the casket and family about twelve yards ahead.  Those sitting in chairs stopped chatting, their eyes pulled to the feline, as he made his way into the front room. The guest never stopped, went to the casket, did a U-turn, walked back out the exact same path, exited the funeral home, and meandered down the walkway.     

     My friend Kenny asked, "Friend of yours?" 

     "Never saw the beast before," I said. 

     It was October, Halloween was just around the corner, and a black cat visited the local funeral parlor.  It kind of all fit together very appropriately, I thought.  We were only missing a thunder and lightening storm, but we'll save that for another time. And I had made one error with that October evening visitor: I failed to get him or her to sign the register book.