If you think about it, it’s weird that two pictures is more than most cats in the history of the world ever had made of them and yet, I’m sitting here crying because this little guy only had two pictures made of him. That I know of. Maybe he’ll be the Robert Johnson of cats, and a hundred years from now, his cat fans will argue over a third picture, but no one will be able to say for sure.
He drank a ton of water and then dragged himself into his food. I couldn’t tell if he ate any, but he enjoyed it. I got ready for work, found a box and an old towel, and put him on the towel in the box. He left a huge puddle of piss on the floor. He objected a little to being put in the box, but seemed content to be put in the car.
We listened to the radio and he was quiet.
When we got to Animal Control, he was stretched out in the box, his one leg all cock-eyed, and his ears sticking up. He was very still.
“Did you die?” I asked him, poking him. After a second, his paw twitched, as if to say, “I would, if you would give me some peace here, woman.”
When I took him into Animal Control, he didn’t even move when the dog that had been brought in right before him barked.
“I found a cat,” I said. “I think he’s been hit by a car.” The woman behind the desk brought over a carrier and then she looked at him. Her face fell and she said, “Let’s not move him. I’ll just take him back to the vet.”
But I think it was obvious to both of us that there was nothing the vet was going to be able to do, but to make sure he was gone.
I think, at least, my experience of it was that he was so scared out by the side of the road that he just couldn’t relax enough to die. But you know he was someone’s pet, because when he saw me, he seemed relieved, like “Oh, here’s a person. That’s good.” That’s not how feral cats act about the arrival of people. So, then, he had some water and maybe some food and he was in a warm, dry, comfortable place and that was that. He could let go.