Dead Cat

There was a dead cat on the side of the road.

It was sprawled out near a ditch, a tiny blood splatter under its torso. This tiny fragile thing, its neck broken, rendered immobile by a speeding car on a blind corner.

Its teeth were bared in a permanent snarl. No, not a snarl. It was not trying to look scary. It was scared. It was.

All the life had faded from its dark bulging eyes. They hadn’t seen the car coming. The last things they saw were headlights. Then darkness.

Hannah tugged at my hand, clearly not wanting to look at this dead creature any longer. Her eyes were averted, her face pale. She was staring at the ditch beside it. Not at it. She couldn’t bear to.

She was probably thinking of her own cat, Jade. It had the same ginger fur as this mysterious corpse. The same green eyes. But this was not Jade. It couldn’t be.

What was its name? Daisy? Kitty? Colonel Fluffy? Steve? There was no collar, no name tag, no emergency contacts. Nothing. Yet it didn’t look like a stray. It looked well fed and healthy. As healthy as the deceased can look, at least. Someone owned this cat. Someone would mourn this cat. Someone who was not here.

Would the owner find their cat, here on the side of the road? Would some kind stranger, a friend of the family, inform them of its passing. Or would someone come along and bury the cat out of respect?

More than likely, it would be ignored. It would rot out here, leaving only its broken, fragile bones. People would pass it in their cars and not pay it much heed. Oh, look, a dead cat. Poor thing. So it goes.

There was a dead cat on the side of the road.

“Come on,” Hannah said. “Leave it be.”

“Okay,” I said. I didn’t move.