As much as I like to think of myself as a good person, sometimes my actions clearly show that I am not. I want to be, but I am too much of a coward to truly do any good.
This evening, a black cat wandered into our yard. I could not tell at first, but it was seriously injured and looked like he had been hit by a car. He was walking around and meowing like a normal cat, yet by the severity of the wounds it looked like the most humane thing to do would be to put him down. He seemed very friendly and sweet even though he must have been in a great deal of pain.
It being the weekend, I knew that Animal Control wouldn’t come out to pick him up and I didn’t think it was a good idea to feed him and I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. Not knowing what else to do, I went inside the house and closed the door behind me, leaving the cat on his own. When I told my wife about the cat, she immediately called Animal Control and promptly got the answer we expected. They didn’t have sufficient staff and they would not be able to send someone out.
We went out and I promptly forgot about the cat. In fact, I didn’t think about him until I was coming back from a late errand and saw a neighborhood cat cross in front of my car lights. Then I started to remember. Not only did I remember seeing the cat earlier in the day, but I remembered when I was walking the dog late two nights previous, I saw a whole bunch of cats sitting in the street. One by one they got up and walked away, eyeing the dog from a distance. All but one. There was a black shadow that could have been a crouched cat or it could have been a spot where the trees blocked the street light. I would have bet money on the former, and for just a brief second I thought “what if it was a cat hit by a car and the other cats were holding vigil?” I never took a step closer to figure it out and instead walked back to the house.
Now I know. Twice I’ve come across this wounded cat, and twice I’ve rationalized and turned my back on him. I could have done the right thing and taken him to the animal shelter and saved him from suffering. Instead, I let my fears take over.
If this were one of my stories, I would soon start seeing black cats wherever I went or the other cats would sit in front of my house with their judging eyes until I went mad with guilt. But this is not fantasy and this is not horror. This is my life. So tonight, I sit up at two in the morning writing this, haunted only by guilt and by my weakness.
Maybe I’ll find the cat in the morning and at long last do the right thing. Then again, maybe I would find myself closing the door.