So my folks had a lake-front cottage along a busy major highway, and we spent summers there. We left the cat at the other house for the first few years, fearing she would be run over by a semi.
She was with us before I was born, but she was definitely "my" cat, so I really didn't like leaving her behind. One year, we decided she was old enough (10 yrs old) that it wouldn't be a problem. Then July came along...
My dad gets up one morning to go to work, and sees a big black furry pancake on the road behind the house. No one else around had a black cat, so he knows it is ours, and dead. Already late for work, he gets a shovel, and puts the cat in the outside trash bin, planning on burying it when he gets home.
Around noon, I'm up in my room and I hear "AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!" My mom had found the cat in the trash and was flipping out. My older brother gets the shovel, crosses the road with the cat and buries it well beyond the tree line.
This was Tuesday. I spent the rest of the week despondent, and begging my folks for another cat.
On Friday, we had a family we were friendly with out to the lake for some swimming and martinis. As all the kids are joining the parents on the porch before dinner, who comes sauntering up the steps like Fred Astaire?
My Black Cat, with not a scratch on her.
Our family loses our minds, and we try to relate the story, but our friends were having nothing of it. They didn't believe a word.
Although I was still a little s#!t of a kid, I never messed with that cat ever again. She died seven years later, and I buried her across the street just like my brother. I kept my fingers crossed, but I never saw her again.