These things come in threes, you know. Deaths come in threes. My husband always says this, and he always makes the circumstance fit the saying, even if the deaths happen more than a few days apart. One celebrity dies, you just know two more are slated to meet their maker so John can say solemnly, only partially disbelieving it, "These things come in threes."
Only this time they did come in a trio. I got to work and was puzzled about the garbage not being taken out. Oh, my boss said, the janitor died. Yikes, that was sudden. He was in just last week making arrangements for his honeymoon. He'd been the janitor there for umpteen years, too, and looked about 107 but turned out to be in his late 50's. Not old at all.
Then Bryan Barrett called to tell me Chris Bates had had a fatal heart attack. He was the ex-husband of one of my best friends; I used to know him pretty well. He pestered her into marriage after a nine year live-in relationship, turned 40 the next year and promptly had a midlife crisis, and left her for a much younger blonde in Canada. She had to hire a private detective to find him in order to serve the divorce papers. I wasn't too happy with him after all that, but I was sort of sorry he'd died so young. He was only 50 or so.
But none of that got me like coming home and hearing that one of Doug Faunt's beloved kitties had been hit by a car and killed. Man, what a bleak day. There were other reasons to feel a bit down, but that kind of topped it. John, of course, trotted out the old saying. I think he hears his mother when he says it. It seems to have been something she said, only partially disbelieving. Funny what we inherit.
I'll have more information about the mysterious other reasons tomorrow. Until then, please don't die. The quota's been met.
