Saturday night. We're back in Burlington. Driving down Route 7, headed to meet Merry Moses for coffee and music in Middlebury. Passing through road construction, the traffic slows, as one car after another veers to the left, going around something in the road. In the headlights, a ball of orange and white fur. A little animal was just hit. A little cat. Poor little cat…my heart in my throat. But as we drive by, I see her head lift. I bolt from the car. Heather, the rescuer of little furry animals. The cat whisperer.
I crouch over the frightened little creature. Her eyes are wide and staring, pupils dilated, and I know she's probably beyond saving. Her little mouth opens and shuts in soundless meows. Her paws reach out, trying and trying to get up.
Have you ever seen a life prepare to leave a living body? I haven't. It's tragic beyond words. And beautiful, in a way. A sacred moment. But so, so sad. All the needless death in the world, you might think a cat in the road would go unnoticed. And often it does. But a life is a life is a life. And a wasted life is tragic. A soldier in Iraq, a kitten hit by a car… it isn't predation or the natural order; it's just stupid and sad.
Another car stops. And another. And suddenly a community has formed around the little animal. Dennis is on the cell phone trying to find a vet. I stroke the little cat. She's going to die, someone says. Can someone take her to a vet? One woman lives an hour from here. The other has a car full of kids. We will, I say. She's in shock, says one of the women, cover her up, she could die of shock. I take off my jacket and put it over her. A velvet shroud.
Briefly, the silent cries become more frequent, and I can't help but notice the sharp, healthy little kitty teeth and white-pink gums. The pale gums mean shock, and that the end is near. Someone puts down newspaper, a piece of cardboard, an Ann Taylor bag, so we can pick her up and transport her to the vet. The little cat winces as we move her onto the makeshift gurney. Her paws have stopped reaching. It's too late, one woman says. No, no there's still a heartbeat says the other. Are you sure? Yes, there's a heartbeat. I keep petting her, trying to keep the life from flowing out. I look up to see a police car pulling over. He's sympathetic, just wants the humans out of the road. But when I look back down, a tiny red trickle of blood is seeping from her soft, pink nose. She's gone, I say. And my eyes fill with tears. She's gone.
We four hover over her for a moment more, as the police officer stands watch. I had an orange cat that got hit by a car when I was a little girl, I say. So did I, said one of the women. Somewhere there's a little girl who's looking for her cat. A very sad little girl.
Dennis and I carry the cat over to the grass, place her beneath a fir tree. The two women go back to their cars. We continue on to the Coffeehouse to meet Merry Moses and listen to Australian folk music.
We see a good show, Ian Campbell Smith, the so-called “Billy Bragg of Australia”…though Dennis is probably the only one in the audience who knows who Billy Bragg is. We tell Merry about the cat. And she is appropriately sad. And then the conversation turns to other things. Like a book Merry bought for Dennis, called “Marley, the Worst Dog In the World.” Marley is Dennis' cat. Who has a reputation that precedes her. We have a good laugh. And attempt to go elsewhere for a beer, but give up after finding the Inn is closed. Our heart isn't in it anyway. We're emotionally drained after our little roadside experience. We turn around and head back to Burlington.
I tell Dennis about a series of dreams I've been having, in which I'm trying to save little dying animals. A piglet that looks up at me knowingly and swallows, fearful but resigned to its death on the butcher block, as I cradle it helplessly in my arms. A tiny squirrel run over by a car before I can rescue it from the road. In each dream I sense that I am somehow responsible for the suffering, despite my efforts to nurture and console. And now this little cat presents herself as the actualization of these strange dreams. Why? What does it mean?
I insist we stop when we get to the place in the road where the construction begins. I get out of the car and approach the fir tree, hoping that somehow she would have gotten up and walked away between then and now. But there she is, stiffer than we left her, and damp with dew. I pluck a branch from the fir tree and a couple hardy yellow flowers and place them in the crook of the little cat's neck. So that whomever finds her will know that someone was there when she died, I tell Dennis. And then burst into tears. I am eight years old again, crying over my dead orange tabby cat. Dennis calls the animal shelter and leaves a message in case anyone is looking for a little orange cat.
Back at the B&B I take a bath and climb into bed. Dennis holds me tight in his arms as I continue to whimper, a heart full of ache, the little cat representing all the pent up loss my soul can hold. Loss of life and loss of love, loss of all that is precious and out of my control, gone forever, all that is unappreciated until it's too late. I sniffle and blow my nose and feel grateful for the strong arms that hold me. And for the two healthy cats waiting for us to return home. And for the fact that we both still have humanity enough to be touched by the passing of life, however small.
We should give the cat a name, Dennis says. Because in the end she was ours.
Little Orange Cat.
Little OC it is, says Den.
Goodbye, Little Orange Cat. We knew you only briefly, but you gave four strangers pause, and when you left, we had four stories to tell.
I stumbled across your blog while I was doing some online research. This little story truly touched me. You showed great compassion to this dying creature. At least you tried to help her, and she did not die alone or frightened.
Posted by: panasianbiz | July 17, 2006 at 03:22 PM