The Neighbor’s cat

When she screamed it was a high pitched panicked wail of my name. We lived on the third floor of a hundred year old house in uptown Toronto. Our deck was the same size as our bedroom and overlooked a cemetery. It was grand, for a 600 sq. ft. apartment with a sloped ceiling and a nice view.

The stairs doubled back into a well, leading the second floor, and wrapped again to the ground floor. She had charged up the stairs, thrown open the door and scared the shit out of me. I leapt down the narrow stairwell to find her already moving back down to the ground floor. She was crying and shouting that a cat had been hit by a car outside of our house.

We lived on one of the highest accident prone corners in the city. Cars racing north and south on Mount Pleasant slammed into cars making left hand turns on a near daily basis. In the outside southbound lane next to our driveway a white form lay motionless.

She had told me the cat was still moving when she came to get me. It wasn’t moving anymore.

She wanted to launch herself into the midday traffic to grab the cat, tears streaming down her face. I stopped her, told her to wave cars off while I found a cardboard box. Returning I stepped into the road, and checked the cat.

It was dead. It was starting to cool. It hadn’t lived long after impact. Squatting over it, I yanked the collar free, suddenly boiling with rage. I gently shifted the cat into the box and carried it to the sidewalk.

Our own cat watched impassively through the window, 3 floors up. She had never been outside. She hopefully never would be. It offended me that someone who cared enough for their pet to collar it would let it meander through a heavy traffic area. It disgusted me.

The collar had a tag, the address was the house across the intersection. Fuming I followed my girlfriend across, carrying the box. She rang the doorbell and we waited. A mom in her 30’s answered. “Your cat was killed. By a car.” I blurted. My girlfriend stammered a condolence as the shocked woman burst into tears. She reached for the box. We apologized again for their loss as she thanked us for bringing the cat to her. The door closed with a whisper.

My girlfriend berated me for being insensitive and I had been, but I remained furious they had treated their pet so callously.

A few days later, the doorbell buzzed. I made the long walk door two flights to find that neighbor trying to figure out how to push a small package into our mailbox. She smiled and reintroduced herself. She wanted to thank us again for bringing her cat home. She handed me a bottle of wine and a bathset, the kind of thing you give for a housewarming.

I smiled and thanked her and I finally understood she had loved this cat as much as any other pet owner would. That she was grateful that someone else cared enough to not leave it in the street to be defiled by further cars and disposed of by the city.

I understood I was wrong to judge her, but I hoped she would keep the next cat indoors.

I still hope that.