Earlier this week, I was pulling out of my parking space at the station to go home and a 4×4 stopped and blocked the (single track) road. I had a moment of grumpiness before I realised that the driver had got a box and towel from the boot and was standing over something black, furry and very still on the grass verge. It was obviously a dead cat and she was obviously not coping with the job she had set out to do.
I jumped out my car, concerned it might be her cat, and nobody should have to pick up the body of a furball they love on their own. It wasn’t hers, but she was very distressed and told me she wanted to take it to the vet to see if it had a chip so they could find the owner, but she couldn’t bring herself to pick it up.
Thinking of Charlie Cat, and how his disappearance would have been so much more understandable if someone had done the same for him / me, I took my gloves off and talked the cat through the fact that he was ok (I admit, I was stretching reality a little bit there) and I was just putting him in a nice cosy box to visit the vet one last time. I put the box in the very kind lady’s car and we parted ways.
I went to Tesco. Where I threw up in the car park.
Then I went to the pet shop for Norman’s special diet biscuits, where things got a little odd. At the till, the people who worked there were talking about a dead fish. It was obviously ok to discuss dead animals and I needed to tell someone about the poor cat, so I told them. I think I must have come across as slightly deranged (I was a little bit shaky) as they all eyed the biscuits with suspicion and one of the girls very gently asked me, in that voice you reserve for people right on the edge, if I had the cat with me. I think at that moment they thought I had bought the biscuits for a dead cat I was planning on taking home. When I explained that the biscuits were for a very alive Norman and the dead cat was at a vet with an entirely different person they actually breathed a sigh of relief.
I may have crossed a line I was unaware of from ‘mad cat lady with crochet habit’ to ‘mad cat lady with crochet habit and the potential to store – and feed – dead cats back at Pog Towers’. I’m not sure how to address this one, other than to post another cat picture of a very healthy Norman’s ears taking it easy in his favourite place on top of a box, on top of my wardrobe. :o)