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My middle son was four, and my youngest was still little enough to doze off in a wrap on my back. We gathered at Lily’s house—it’s always Lily’s house—for some mom time, relaxation, and a chance for the kids to run wild while we chatted. Perhaps five or six of us were there, with Melanie among them. We opened Lily’s back door and ushered the kids into her yard, a lively group aged from seven to three. The littlest one played in the sand while the older ones dashed around playing tag. Our ears were tuned to the sound of pain-induced screams.
I can’t recall our conversations. Maybe we discussed our kids, or yarn, baby wraps, homeschooling, or what to feed our little monsters for lunch. Lily’s home wasn’t pristine; the sink was piled high with dishes and laundry overflowed in the room. We settled on the couches, breastfeeding occasionally and rocking babies to sleep.
Suddenly, the back door swung open. My four-year-old, Leo, burst in with a troop of children behind him. He brandished a shovel like a proud archaeologist and shouted, “I DUG UP A DEAD CAT!” He unceremoniously dumped a clump of bones onto the linoleum.
Oh my goodness, he had actually unearthed a dead cat—Lily’s cat, long gone to bones and ashes for months. I stood there in shock.
My friends erupted in laughter.
I Need More Dead Cat Friends
Lily, Melanie, and the rest were true friends. I saw their messy kitchens and laundry piles, and when my son dumped those dead cat bones onto the floor, they laughed for a solid five minutes. A “dead cat” friend looks at you amidst the chaos and, instead of judging, embraces you. They invite you in and say, “Your mess? Come see mine, and we’ll bond even more.”
Dead cat friends overlook differences in taste, whether it’s music, fashion, or anything else. They might not agree with your choices, but it doesn’t matter. You share common struggles—laundry, dishes, and the nightly debate over dinner options. If your husband (like mine) does all the cooking, they’ll tease you about how lucky you are while still complaining about dinner. And you listen. Dead cat friends can be different.
They don’t hold it against you when your kids act like kids. They can refuse to share, color on walls, or soak each other with a forbidden hose. Your dead cat friends will understand that kids will be kids. When your child gets a marker on their face or cries because someone threw sand at them, you comfort them, then shrug and say, “Eh. Kids.”
They Love Your Kids
Dead cat friends appreciate your kids in all their quirks and love them for it. Your children aren’t just appendages; they genuinely like them. When Leo dumped that shovel, my dead cat friends laughed, knowing he wanted to be a paleontologist. They remembered which baby wraps my youngest preferred and that my oldest was a mischief-maker, but only when paired with Lily’s oldest.
True dead cat friends celebrate your children just as you celebrate theirs. You laugh when their four-year-old climbs the stairs, shakes his backside, and sings, “My butt, my butt, my butt is in the circus!” (That little performer belonged to Casey, another genuine dead cat friend). That child is in high school now, and I still chuckle at the memory. You admire a boy’s love for sparkles and his collection of purses. You play along with their imaginary meals and have photos of your kids hiding in boxes together.
It’s a reciprocal relationship. Dead cat friends take the time to interact with your kids, and your kids adore them back. When you pull up to their home, your children rush inside, calling for their friends by name. They know where shoes go and that they aren’t allowed upstairs. They understand that these are your dead cat friends, and you visit often.
I Miss My Dead Cat Friends
As life progresses, friends come and go. I currently have one dead cat friend left. As our kids grow older, our conversations have shifted beyond infant concerns. We can laugh about her son’s voice changing or gossip about things I wouldn’t share with anyone else.
Lily has cleaned my house without asking. That’s what dead cat friends do. Once we were both fully vaccinated, hers was the first indoor home I visited, and I joyfully exclaimed, “I’M TOUCHING YOUR COUNTERS!” She laughed with me, not at me—an indication of a true dead cat friend.
I can name her cats and her favorite book series. She’s given me fresh eggs, and now my kids refuse to eat anything but “Lily’s eggs.” They’d hug her, but, you know, pandemic. When I visit, I know where to park and how to operate her tricky backyard latch. She knows just how to soothe my whiny seven-year-old.
I truly adore her kids.
I long for more dead cat friends, but I’d rather have one amazing dead cat friend than several ordinary mom friends. Lily loves her cats so much she might dislike this term, and I apologize, dear friend. But I believe Mrs. Whiskers would forgive me.
This article was originally published on May 7, 2021.