Yesterday, I had to stop by the liquor store for some cooking additions. As I handed my selections over to the clerk to ring up, she started up a conversation with the woman behind me in line.

Clerk: "I haven't been to church in a couple of months."

Lady: "Oh I know how that is, sometimes life just gets that way."

Clerk: "Well, I get up in time, but I've just really had a lot of depression and anxiety lately. So-and-so told me about your daughter," in a really significant tone.

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Then the clerk looks right at me and says, "Her daughter got bit by a rabid cat."

Then they both start telling me this story about a severe bite the woman's daughter got from some stray cat that they decided they thought was rabid. It ran off. They never found it, but they're pretty sure it died because they saw buzzards nearby the next day. Since they couldn't find the cat to have it tested for rabies, they decided the safest course was to have the child treated, which apparently involves a series of some ungodly number of shots—multiple shots at the site of the wound, shots in both hips, etc. The child is nine, but she's fine/going to be fine.

I suppose one can only stand in line in liquor stores in Mississippi for so long before one runs into a "bit by a rabid animal" story.