Recently I created a bit of a panic with a buddy of mine who became deeply distraught over my wife’s shocking passing – because I texted him that she had been killed. Let me back up a bit. Like most people, I use my phone for texting all the time. But I don’t like typing, because it takes too long. So, unless it’s a short message like, “okay” or “I’ll be home in 10 minutes” or in the case of one of my daughters, “No, I won’t loan you $800 for a new iPhone,” then I usually dictate my text using the voice recognition feature. Saves me so much time.

Which brings me to the subject of my wife’s death, which – and I can’t stress this enough – never happened. She’s fine. Honest. If you’re a regular reader, or even if you’re someone who’s irregular, you probably know by now that throughout our marriage, we’ve always had cats. We’ve also fostered kittens – dozens of them by now. I love cats. Heck, I even sing to them – mainly to annoy my wife.

We had this one adorable calico kitty named Mischief. But over time, I gave her the nickname of Misha. She was a sweet furry companion, a real lap cat. She would routinely follow me to bed at nighttime and sleep on my pillow. She’d often knead my hair – adorable, I agree – and occasionally painful. I loved Misha deeply, which is why I was profoundly saddened to learn one day that she had escaped out the front door, ran off, was hit by a car and killed.

The next day, I got a text from a buddy of mine named Frank, reminding me about our lunch plans. I texted him back and told him that I would have to pass on lunch. I was not up for it because, as I texted, “I’m feeling a little down today. Misha was killed last night.”

Only that was not how my dictation came through. The message Frank received was: “I’m feeling a little down today. Michele was killed last night.” 

“OMG I’m so sorry, man. Howd it happen?” Frank texted back in shock.

“She was hit by a car,” I nonchalantly replied, unaware of the typo that changed Misha to Michele.

“A car? A car??? Did they catch the guy? Was he a drunk driver? Were you there when it happened?” a stunned Frank replied.

“No idea what happened or who the driver was. I was watching an episode of The Simpsons at the time. You know the one where Homer almost blows up the nuclear plant he works at when he falls asleep on the job. Pretty funny episode, I have to say,” I wrote back.

“Tim, U okay? Do U want me to come over, buddy?” Frank inquired.

“That’s okay. I have a busy day today. I need to go to Costco. And after that I have to go to the post office,” I casually explained.

“Tim, buddy, are U sure U should be doing a Costco run after what just happened?” 

“Well, I’m almost out of Twizzlers and granola bars, And I could use some more detergent,” I clarified.

“Wow, I have to say, not sure I could handle this tragedy as calmly as U. Tim, I think maybe U R in shock,” Frank probed.

“Nah, not really. To be honest, she was getting pretty old anyway. I figured she wasn’t going to be around much longer,” I wrote back.

“Seriously, dude? That seems a bit callous, pardon me for saying. She had a lot of good years left in her,” Frank wrote back, now starting to freak out.

“Well maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I sure miss her,” I sighed in response.

“I know this might be a bit premature to ask, but are U thinking about any sort of memorial service?” Frank asked, feeling uneasy about what to say next.

“Nah, I don’t think so. I don’t want to go to all that fuss. I’ve been through this a few times before.” 

“Tim, What are U saying???!!! R U thinking clearly, my friend? How can I help?” Frank implored.

“Well, I was planning to bury her in the backyard. You don’t happen to have a shovel, do you, Frank?” I asked.

“A shovel? A SHOVEL??? Of course, I have a shovel. Dude, U R really not thinking clearly right now,” Frank texted back, increasingly concerned about my mental state.

“I don’t want to impose. I was going to get a shovel at Costco anyway,” I calmly texted back.

“Enough about the shovel! Jesus, Tim. I think I better come over. On my way,” Frank wrote back frantically.

Then I texted back, “You know the saddest part about all of this, Frank?” 

“I can’t imagine. Tell me, buddy.”

“Turns out she was pregnant. And I had repeatedly told my wife that we needed to get her neutered so that she would not get pregnant. But my wife never got around to doing it,” I wrote with a bit of melancholy.

“Pregnant? Seriously? Oh My God! This keeps getting worse and worse. Tim, I had no idea your wife was pregnant. I hope she and her baby didn’t suffer,” Frank wrote back in utter disbelief.

“What are you talking about, Frank? Michele’s not pregnant.”

“But you just wrote – wait, hold on. Michele’s not pregnant? But you said she was killed in a car crash. You have me totally flipping out, buddy!” Frank wrote back in exasperation.

Eventually we both figured out how this dialogue went off the rails. I explained that it was our cat Misha, not my wife Michele, who had died.

In case you were curious, this kitty’s name was Mischief, AKA “Misha.”

I guess the lesson is to carefully re-read my texts before I press SEND. In fact, now I always check my texts BEFORE I press SEND. Well, most of the time, anyway.

That’s all for now. I need to go. It’s my turn to make dinner tonight. I just dictated the following text to my wife: “Sweetie, dinner will be ready at 6pm. It’s your favorite: Barbecued Chicken.”  

My wife immediately fired back a snippy response: “What’s wrong with you? Why in the world would you think my favorite meal is Barbecued Children??”  

Uh, oh. I did it again….

That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.

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