When I was about 18 years old, I was on my way home from a night out drinking and ran over an already dead cat on the road in front of my house.

I pulled over and though it appeared to have been run over repeatedly, I recognized it as my own cat. So I peel the dead cat off the road put it in my car and pull into my garage at home.

I still lived with my parents, so I go in the house crying, waking everyone up. My parents were trying to console me because I forgot to explain that the cat was already dead when I ran over it.

After 20 minutes of being in the warm house the cat began to reek, so I proceeded to the back yard with a shovel in hand. Just as I began to dig my dad yelled from the house, "Hey asshole, you can quit bawling now, your cat is right here in the kitchen."

It wasn't my cat after all. Boy, did I feel stupid!