For the past few days, Raphaela and I have been trying to save a new black and white kitten in our garden, obviously abandoned by the mother.  We have been largely unsuccessful in teaching this kitten to do anything that would insure survival, like eating or drinking or bathing itself.

But we keep going, hoping the situation will change, and I know that this exercise is teaching Raphaela compassion.

Until this morning that is, when I went outside and found the kitten dead.  I don't know what I am going to tell Raphaela when she gets home from school today.  I am seriously waffling between sugar coating the whole story - "He went home to his Mommy." - or telling her the truth.

At some point in the relatively near future, we will have to deal with the death of a pet head on, as our cat Harry "The Highlander" is 13 and a half years old.

If I decide to tell her the truth, it will be a good lesson I suppose, though a harsh one.