vituperation

I rocketed along Highway 72 this morning with all the other commuters heading into Huntsville, my mind awhirl with thoughts of new houses and fixing things. Traffic slowed briefly at Jeff Road, the unofficial line separating Huntsville and Madison. As I accelerated through the intersection, I caught sight of something crumpled in the no-man’s-land at the edge of the oncoming lanes.

A small gray cat, lying limp and lifeless on the white lines.

Dead cats and dogs (but especially cats, because we’re cat people) on the road always sadden me. I wonder what kind of life they had, wonder if anyone loved them, wonder how they ended up in the road to be smashed by a car or truck. Wonder who would hit an animal that’s normally a pet and leave it in the road.

Particularly a road this busy, I thought as I approached.

Then, just before I got to him, he raised his head just a little and tried to look around.

I won’t lie to you. A small voice inside me said, He’s going to die. Go on to work. I wish I could tell you that I’m 100% altruistic, but knowing what that tiny little voice whispered in the first seconds would make me feel like a liar if I did. I drove on by, still headed to work but feeling bad for the cat. And feeling like an asshole.

For roughly three seconds. That’s when the really BIG voice in my head roared, How could you even think of leaving a suffering animal on the side of the road? You’re better than that.

I turned around at the next available spot and raced back to the Jeff Road intersection. Flipping on my hazard lights, I parked so that he’d be blocked from traffic and got a beach towel out of the back seat. I could see his sides rising and falling rapidly as I walked toward him. His head was down, his eyes closed. Solid gray, young, domestic short hair. He looked almost exactly like this. I spread the towel on the asphalt in front of him.

“Hey, buddy,” I said in the sweet-kitty voice I reserve for love talk to our own cats. “It’s okay now, boy.”

His eyes opened, revealing irises of a beautiful yellow-green. He looked at me for a split-second, like he was trying to figure out what was going on, then freaked out. He hissed and started to flail away from me as best he could. Not all his legs were working. Watery diarrhea dribbled from his hind end, marking a trail on the painted stripes of the road.

It felt like my heart was going to break, and for one furious instant if I’d had the chance I would have happily pushed the button that would eradicate humanity from the face of the earth. Not for hitting the cat, mind you. Accidents happen. For leaving the cat to die on a piece of asphalt in the August sun.

I put the towel over him, which seemed to calm him a little, and gently scooped him off the pavement. He put up a weak fight in my arms, and hissed a couple more times. I sweet talked him as I carried him to the car. I laid him in the back seat as tenderly as I could, talking to him the whole time.

Back in the driver’s seat, I introduced the pedal to the metal in search of an open vet. Though most open pretty early, 6:45 is a little too early. The first place I stopped was dark, and there weren’t any cars in the parking lot. I hauled ass up 72 back into Madison, aiming for our normal vet, when I remembered that the vet’s office on Hughes Road always looked open in the mornings when I passed it.

After an eternal wait at the red light I was on Hughes Road and turning into the parking lot. I ran inside, and quickly explained the situation. The speed at which the vet techs went into ER mode was impressive and the cat was whisked out of sight in a matter of seconds. Someone handed me a form to fill out, authorizing a dollar amount for treatment. I wrote it down, left my contact numbers, and went to work.

The vet called our house while I was talking on the phone with Robyn about the cat and the potential cost of fixing him. At any other time the money wouldn’t be a problem at all, but we’re entering a phase where we’ll be paying for two houses AND trying to do some renovation work on one AND buying a new car for Robyn when the spud buys hers. For the first time in ten or more years, money’s going to be somewhat tight. So I’d be lying if I said money was no object with the injured kitty.

The vet told Robyn, who told me, that the cat’s pelvis was broken in two places, that he was very “shocky”, that his blood pressure was very low, that he’d need several days of intensive in-hospital care, and that several weeks of cage living would be needed before he’d be healed. Except, she said, that they were having a really hard time finding a vein because his blood pressure was so low so it may all be moot.

I called the vet and spoke with her. I told her about how it would be hard to spend that kind of money, and wondered if we could work something where she could get the cat stabilized and then have us transfer it to the (much cheaper in the country) vet that the local no-kill shelter uses. She said that would be perfectly acceptable if she could get the cat to stabilize, which they were still trying to do.

I left a message with the lady who runs the no-kill shelter where we got so many of our cats, because Robyn and I thought she might be willing to take the cat for adoption once it was all fixed up. I called Robyn back and we talked long and hard about being able to pay $1000-$2000 for the cat to be healed. We decided to suck it up, and ask you, our readers, to make donations to help the kitty that someone ran over and left to die. We vowed to donate all funds in excess of the vet bills (if there were any) to the tiger rescue facility, and I started writing this entry.

Then the vet called. The little gray kitty went into respiratory failure and died. But he wasn’t in pain, because they were at least able to ease his suffering. I asked.

I might’ve cried when she told me, but I wouldn’t admit it.