Dead Cat in Cambridge - and this time it wasn't mine
At the unexpected hour of approximately 8am the doorbell rings. Too early for the postman. No sound of a vehicle stopping. I look out, a bikepropped against the tree. Quick, better see who, must be important? A younger man, asking do I know where the house with this number is?; I think he means a house number but it is too big, this road is not that long; it transpires he has discovered a ginger cat killed on the road andhas the phone number from its collar. There is a ginger cat around, but I have no idea whose it is. He has phoned, but there is no answer. I am sorry but I cannot help and I close the door.
I see him from my window standing there, indecisive, he cannot just go - leaving this bedraggled corpse on the meagre, worn patch of grass.
This happened to me. I should help.
I get dressed as fast as I can despite hooks and zips which never behave in a crisis, fingers suddenly sausage-like. As I emerge from the house, the neighbour is shaking his head, looking a little concerned, but clearly he knows nothing either and is not going to get involved, just as I must have known from the start I would.
I take the phone number, the name. Felix. Happy? Not any more, hope he had a good life until last night. Almost an afterthought, I take the man’s name and phone number, otherwise his good deed will be anonymous, unacknowledged, and he deserves the credit I will otherwise take along with responsibility for the corpse. I hope they will want to thank him. I tell him, this happened to me, a good man salvaged a corpse of my cat for me, and you are a good man too.
Reassured, relieved? He cycles away, I look for a shroud.
I produce a black bag, lift the stiffening dead weight, always surprising how heavy they are, cold and still, and put him as gently and tidily as possible into the plastic tub formerly used to house the recycling. Then I turn him to face the wall to stop the tub filling with rain, cats don’t like to get wet. First stage of duty done. I owe it to this kind man, this lifeless ex-cat and its owners who may be equally as devastated as I would be.
How can I not remember; one loss brings all the others back to the surface, I fight memories of a previous stiff ginger cat, digging a hole in which he would not comfortably fit for a friend who could not do it herself, the three of my own I have buried, the fourth I was denied even that. And not just cats of course - the loves, the people, the hopes.
Later, when I have finished doing my duty.
But what were they thinking of, to have a cat near such a frantically busy road, how did they sleep at night, will they blame themselves, did they wonder where he was this morning? Will they miss him, did they love him so much they risked his life on this death-trap because he was so much part of their lives, are they away on holiday and a neighbour is feeding him, will the neighbour feel guilty, how will they react when they get back, will they fetch him quickly, what if they don’t phone back, if the phone number is wrong, will they come at all, will I have to bury him?
Did I hear it happen?
But if I had, I could have done nothing. Too late already. If what I think I heard was what I think it must have been, then this executioner didn’t even slow down in his unnecessary, reckless, after-midnight demonstration of macho driving. Did he know or care that he just snuffed out a life, never have a pet of his own to love and to mourn? But a coincidence that I heard a fast car and a soft thump, a thud, like a careless car on a speed bump, sufficient at the time the idle and passing speculation of a sound out of context, identified only retrospectively as the probable, pitiless despatch of a cat. A little like when I ran over my own small cat, wondering idly at the bump in the drive, hope that wasn’t the cat!, before the reality caught up like a speeding train colliding with my heart and my conscience.
I dial the number and wait. Eventually an answer machine cuts in. I leave a message. I regret very much breaking the news this way, a cat bearing their number on its collar is dead, I guard his body pending their response, a kind man has spared him the added insult, the ultimate indignity of the unclaimed body (and incidentally being mutilated beyond recognition and all decency when a lorry with workmen arrives not an hour afterwards and parks on the exact spot). I want them to know that I am only the replacement hero, not the original. I even want them to feel just a little guilty as every bereaved owner ought, that we are responsible for pets as for people in our lives, that we should guarantee their safety; by owning them, our explicit offer of companionship and shelter implies protection which we fail to deliver when they die in this fashion. Perhaps they will be remarkably sanguine and philosophical about it, well he had a good life, he would go out at night, this was only to be expected sooner or later, his nine lives ran out, anyway we can always get another one/have already got three more. Maybe I am the only one to shed tears over this remnant of a once animated animal, the sorrow shared with an stranger on a bike who couldn’t just ride by. Hope he wasn’t late for work, hope he has a good day and isn’t dwelling on it the whole time.
I would be.
I am.