Dead Cat on the Sidewalk:
The first thing I did upon seeing the dead cat was to walk inside, and exchange the Vuse for a Camel. Tobacco would be more effective here. It had been a while since I’ve had to deal with something dead on my front doorstep. I wasn’t going to short myself on body-numbing toxins for this.
I recognized the poor fucker immediately. It was the male that lived under the shed. A feral cat that found a home at the Maverik where I was employed, along with two females. Opportunistic bastards that found humans tolerable enough to justify the constant access to half-eaten food. My coworkers loved the little beasts. They started to give them food, and to treat them as the adopted mascots of our little corner. We never named them, or at least nobody could agree on the names. Probably a blessing. Hard to feel down about “The Male."
My first thought on seeing the body was that a customer ran him over, an outcome I’ve been expecting for months. A cat who sees a parking lot as his terf is a cat that gambles every day with death by screeching rubber. But he wasn’t flat enough for that, and did not have a bad case of aired-out intestines.
My second thought was that it was a bad prank; the twisted humor of a local heathen hopped up on narcotics. Enough of those in the area, and it wouldn’t be the first case I’ve seen. It’s easy to find humor in such a thing when the heroin is calling the shots. But no. The wound was clean. No sign of mutilation or maddened blood lust was around the body. This was not the work of a human divulging in sadist fantasy.
This was a bite. A single, clean snap on the spinal column. No mauling, tearing, ravaging scrap between animals. This was the chomp of a hunter. A clean kill. I swept the premises for signs of struggle, only to find none. The only blood pool was the blood beneath the body, and even that was a slow leak. The bite was not meant to puncture, but to incapacitate by severing the spine. Whatever did this knew how to hunt. It knew how to kill.
By this point, a small crowd had begun to notice the sprawled mess two feet in front of the redbox. Poor fuckers just wanted to rent a movie. Nobody came expecting a twisted corpse in their way. Most of them had probably never seen such a scene. Some regular customers knew this cat, and were discussing how to break the news to my manager, who had taken a particular liking to him. In the end, they decided that I ought to just tell her straight up, which was the choice I had made when I first found the body.
A rustle near the shed caught my attention, and I looked in time to see a large canine run behind the shed. This was a massive fucker, and my first instinct was that a wolf found its way into town. It came back out and sniffed around. I don’t know if it was oblivious to us, or it just didn’t care. Like any idiot would, I approached the creature. It kept sniffing, ignoring the human that stood just to its side. I shouted “Oi!" to see what its reaction would be. Immediately, the dog turned and sat at my feet. His tongue was lolling out of his mouth in greeting. I saw it was a husky, collar-less and clean, with the ability to look straight at you without flinching. Usual signs of a feral animal. I scratched his head to see his response. A dip of the head and a soft whine told me he was friendly. To me, at the very least.
Checking the size of his jaw, I found that the bite mark lined up. This was the animal that killed the cat, and now it was moving around customers begging for attention. They were confused. This thing killed that cat? But he’s so nice and friendly. And he was. This was a dog that grew up around human civilization. I was curious as to what caused the creature to act out. Looking back at the cat, I noticed its eyes. They were wide and alert. This dog had killed the cat with no provocation. No marks on the beast to denote he struck second. A clean hunter’s kill, for the sake of a hunt. The dog knew what to do, and had no issue with snuffing out what it wanted. Thankfully, the dog saw humans as a source of pleasure and food. It had a reason to be friendly, and wouldn’t dare to piss off its potential benefactors.
I dialed the local police to come pick up the dog. I wasn’t going to take any chance with it. Now was the best opportunity to get the beast off the streets and away from humans. I remembered how we dealt with them in New York, back in my bodunk, redneck cul-de-sac of a hometown. We had feral cats and dogs everywhere. Most never bothered to upset each other. But a quick lesson was learned among the locals. The moment one community animal killed another on pure whim, it was removed from the town and put down. Sure, they were friendly little mongrels, and people didn’t want their corner dog to be put down for being an animal. But the danger to humans was something that was universally understood. Any feral animal that decided to draw blood for sport was a time bomb. More dead animals would appear as time went on. Eventually, a human would be attacked, usually a child. People would mutter about how they never saw it coming, about how friendly the creature was. Then they would be put down with solemn understanding. Eventually, we learned the warning signs long before a human was attacked, and started to put down those that unlocked their hunter instincts.
Here, at the Maverik, was an animal that could have been at any stage of unlocking himself. Whether it had attacked a human before was unknown to me, but I knew it was already down that path. The police had assured me that they were on their way. I didn’t see them for nearly an hour. The store was closed by the time the officer had shown up, and the dog had already run down the Main Street of Lehi. I pointed the officer in its direction, and made sure to emphasize that it was to be treated as a potential threat to humans. The officer shrugged me off, probably believing me over-dramatic from the site of a dead animal. I didn’t blame him. He didn’t know how many dead creatures I grew up seeing. He took away the body and went off after the dog. I had hoped that would be the last of it.
I finished up work, and set the alarm to the building. After locking up, I turned around to see the beast once again. He was waiting for me outside, like I was expected to take him home and feed him. I laughed at this point. Thirty minutes, and the police couldn’t find a single 150-pound mongrel. The Lehi force had disappointed me before, and I’ve now come to terms with their incompetence. The first two times had been with narcotic users in our bathroom. One of which passed right under the pig’s noses by visiting a bar half a mile down the road, in an obvious red and silver hippie van, no less. I had a sudden desire to commit tax fraud. No point in paying the bastards if they couldn’t handle such a simple breach of law.
I called them again. Made sure to act it up this time. Give them a story about how I was furious and scared. “This monster is a killer!" I yelled at the receiver. “Get this mongrel off the streets!" They attempted to talk me down, and work me through containing it. I didn’t think I had a problem there. The stupid fucker was curled up at my feet, napping while I stroked his coat. I told them I’d make it, and that I would try my best, then hung up on the saps. It took another 45 minutes before they even showed up for pickup. Again, I played it up. “That thing killed a cat for no reason! I don’t want that thing among humans!" The officer joked with me, told me that the dog was headed to the clunker. I dropped the act at that. Thanked them for picking up the dog, and wished them luck for the night. This one seemed to understand that I played up the fear. He told me the night was young. Might get a call for a real killer later. Another shared laugh, and we moved along with our nights.
I feel as if I should regret sending the dog away. It was a beautiful creature, and I feel it would have made an excellent pet had it had the chance. As it was, it was too late for that. It had been feral for at least a year now, and had committed at least one sport killing. Integrating the beast into a household was a dangerous idea, and resources were better spent elsewhere. Just send him off, and put him down. I doubt they will. Soft-hearted bastards will try to rehabilitate the creature. Let them try. It’ll backfire eventually. At least the mongrel is not my problem anymore.
