Sebastien

I had absolutely zero interest in the fate of Sébastien; no desire to numb my extremities on his behalf. I felt no obligation to provide closure to a family with whom I had no connection. Yet I was drawn into the madness that sometimes overcomes young children on a mission.

We got to work. From three-year-old Yaakov Lang to 11-year-old Chanchi Weiss, we dug our freezing fingers into the frigid peak to free poor old Sébastien from his icy grave. Finally, after ten minutes of not-much-progress, Yitty Fink had the brains to suggest that hot water would do the job quicker and with less pain. In a few minutes, we had formed a chain with containers full of hot water from my house to the snowy Everest at the end of our block. A little while later, Sébastien’s corpse came into full view.

Just shy of my bas mitzvah — so, relative to the rest of the kids, practically an adult — I was chosen to report to Family Falkowitz the solemn news of their pet’s passing. This was not a job I relished, having long regarded the Falkowitzes as “outsiders” who could never fit into our frum worldview. Nevertheless, I found myself knocking on the old oak door of the Falkowitz home to let them know that their lost cat must have slipped into the snowbank weeks ago.

Theirs was an almost stately home, boasting two white marble columns and a balustrade of wrought iron leading toward the double front door. The bell was a metal rope that I would have to pull, setting off peals of chimes coming from all around the inside of the house.