A dead cat is a dead cat

"They say he's good," said Isla.

"I don't know why I'm here," I said.  

"For closure. My friend Sian went through the same thing a few years ago and said he helped immensely."

"But how could he help? A dead cat is a dead cat. You don't really believe this guy can talk to dead cats do you?"

"He's famous for it. Shush he's starting."

"There were about thirty of us in the room and about twenty empty seats. We sat at the back so would could leave discreetly, or at least quickly, if and when we wanted to."

"This is a lot of people wanting to talk to dead cats," I said. "Has there been some sort of cat plague recently?"

Isla shushed again and the man finally spoke. 

"There are a lot of cats on the other side tonight," he said. "I hope their owners are all here."

He continued.

"But one cat is most insistent, quite loud. I'm getting the name Timmy, or Tim. It might be Tom."

"I'm Tim," said a man in the audience, gingerly. 

"And what's your cat's name?"

"Boris."

"Yes, this is Boris. I have a message for you. It doesn't mean much to me, but it might to you."

At this point the man started to mew like a cat.

"Meow, meoww, meeoow," he said, or something very much like it. I couldn't help myself laughing, though I stuck my sleeve in my mouth to contain the noise. Isla was also hurting herself trying not to laugh. She gestured that we should leave.

Ounce outside we collapse on the floor in fits of laughed. It was several minutes before I could speak.

"Did you know?" I said.

She nodded. "Sian told me about it. She said she laughed about it for weeks afterwards. And after that she didn't feel so bad about her cat dying, she just had to live with it. There was no point torturing yourself, or going to see a cat clairvoyant. Life goes on."

"You realise you could have just told me that. You didn't actually have to take me here."

"Yes I did," she said. "Yes I did."