I was driving home from work one evening, just about dusk. My van was on auto-pilot, making its way down my street while my mind was replaying the day’s events and trying to remember anything I might have forgotten from my to-do list. As I reached the grain bins behind the farmer’s co-op, the corner of my eye registered a tiny cat head peeking over the edge of the shallow ditch that runs beside the road. I seem to have cat radar and that night was no exception. Since ours is the only house in that neck of the woods, I pulled into a nearby parking lot, got out of the van, and called to the kitten.

For the non-cat readers, cats are not nearly as trusting or dependent as dogs. A puppy that has been abandoned will run toward you while a kitten, no matter how hungry, will snarl and hiss and spit and eventually depart unfed. But this kitten was exceptionally friendly and as it darted across the street toward me, I realized it was Herman. Herman was the kitten I had adopted from the tree of a friend who lived close enough to a major highway that Herman would have been flat in a matter of days. I had no idea how he could have gotten out of the house, much less down the drive that’s two tenths of a mile long, across the bridge that traverses the small creek that runs through our property, and into that ditch. I picked him up as he rubbed and purred—so happy and excited to see me—put him in my lap in the van and proceeded down the road, up the drive, and across the last cattle guard to the house. Picking up Herman and slinging my purse over my shoulder, I walked down the shrub-covered sidewalk and up the steps to the porch and the kitchen door . . . behind which stood Herman, waiting expectantly.

I looked at the kitten in my arms, actually said “Then who are you?” out loud, and then very gently put him down. My experience with stray kitties has not always been pleasant. But he followed me up the steps and into the house and made himself quite at home.

I named him Sherman.

That little episode reinforced a very valuable lesson I learned years ago. Things are not always as they seem. The Hermans of the world may actually turn out to be Shermans, and we really cannot accurately assess the situation until we have all the facts. But sometimes, those facts are not ours for the taking . . . and assessment isn’t always required.

There are times when Death comes to call and everyone knows its arrival was anything but natural. Perhaps they were too young, or too drug-addicted, or too depressed, or any number of other indications that nature did not take its course this time. But guess what? That’s really none of your business, and when you start asking what happened or fishing for details that are painful at best and horrific at their worst, you are not helping. If the family wants to share the circumstances of their loved one’s death with you, they will do so. And if they don’t offer those details, there is probably a very good reason why they made that choice. So please, allow them their privacy. Don’t engage in the Spanish Inquisition or try to play Twenty Questions—and by all means, please don’t resort to speculation or gossip. The reason why is of no consequence to you and should not alter your relationship with those left behind or change in any way how you respond to them in their time of sorrow. Ill-advised persistence, however, may prove painful for all concerned. Instead of ending up with two very nice kitties who look like they could be brothers, you may find the very people about whom you are so “concerned” avoiding you like the plague. Our mission on this earth should always be to leave places and people better than when we found them, and that’s very difficult to do when we can’t stop asking questions long enough to actually listen to what someone really needs.

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