It's a nasty job, but someone has to do it. An alley cat chose the bomb shelter of our apartment building to rest in peace for eternity. He could have stayed there for months undisturbed were it not for the "savory aroma" that started to permeate the entire building. A frantic search by the neighbors for the source of the odor lead to the miklat.
Inside the miklat the stink was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. On the floor our cute feline friend. "He looks like he's sleeping but he smells like he's dead", I thought to myself. I wrapped a plastic bags around my hand as I went to pick him up.
I pondered, "Why do people say that cats have nine lives? Maybe he's not dead, and when I touch him he will scratch or bite me! Maybe he will jump and let out a loud 'Meowwwwwww'!"
Yalla, get it over with! I reached out to pick him up. He was cold and stiff as a board. "I guess that means he's dead", I concluded using the logic I acquired after years of learning the "daily page" of Talmud. I wrapped him in a plastic bag. "Poor cat, I'm sure he lived a noble life. He probably never spoke Lashon HaRa and the such. In the end he died all alone like a dog!", I thought to myself. Without a delivering a eulogy, I threw the the bag, cat and all, into the dumpster.
Aren't you glad that I shared this with you?