The Relief Society refused to send help. "Clean your own damn cat box!" yelled the Relief Society President, as she slammed down the phone. "She must be having a difficult moment," thought St. Holiday. "I'll try her again in a few minutes."
The Relief Society has changed. It used to give more relief. Back in the day, representatives of that once charitable organization would show up faster than Dominoes Pizza, whenever a cry went out for help managing the gross domestic product of his children. Jenna, Ethan, Josiah, Amanda, Micah, Hannah, Abigail, Noah and Jonah were all beneficiaries of the Relief Society's Sacred Diaper Changing Service, during those difficult times when their angel mother was hospitalized to deliver a baby or to be treated for some disease. After such a long and satisfying history, one could hardly blame St. Holiday for assuming that the Relief Society could be relied upon to save him in the hour of this latest category five emergency. It was not to be. The poor man was left to deal with the dire consequences of his wife's cruel departure alone. He may never forgive her.
A children's choir sang Panis Angelicus outside the saintly one's Show Low retreat, as he brought the heavy bag of used cat food to the trash. Then he headed for the airport to catch the first of several flights that would take him eventually to Global India, where he plans to bathe in the Ganges, soaking with the ashes of the dead, in an attempt to restore the pure patina of saintliness that, until today, was a grace to gaze upon. When asked who would tend to the cat box in his absence, St. Holiday said simply, "The Sisters of Mercy."