When
wishing won’t
undo a deed
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When
wishing won’t |
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She was so heartbroken, standing there at the
curb.
Her mother and I stood in the driveway, wishing
there was something we could do to lessen her grief.
But the child had lost a pet.
And I had been the cause of her loss.
It was Tuesday night … cloudy, beginning to look ugly, with a brisk
breeze blowing and rain threatening
for any moment.
I was on my way to Philadelphia to watch the
deciding hockey game in the first round of the playoffs. As
usual, I cut through a
neighboring development to get closer to my route.
That particular road is winding, so I usually
travel it with caution. Tuesday night was no different.
Out of nowhere, but apparently from the front yard of one of the homes
along the street, a striped orange
cat dashed into the
roadway.
Instinctively, I swerved to avoid hitting the
animal but felt an impact beneath my back tires.
“Oh no … I’ve hit that cat!” I thought.
By the time I could stop and back up to the curb
in front of the house, there was no doubt the cat was
dead, probably instantly.
I approached the front door of the nearest house, rang the bell and was
greeted by a young girl, maybe
11 or so. Fearing that it
might have been her cat, I asked to speak to her mother.
When the woman came to the door and opened it, a
black and white cat dashed into the house. I
breathed a sigh of
relief. At least the orange tabby wasn’t this little girl’s!
When she heard that I’d struck a cat, the child
fled the house, coatless to the rain and wind and stood
at the curb, screaming in
her grief. Her Mitzi was dead.
Despite efforts of her brothers to remove
the cat for burial, her tears continued and there seemed
to be no way to console
her.
Feeling absolutely awful, I went back home
to deal with my own sorrow.
On and off all evening came the mental picture of the little girl,
grieving for her pet.
It was my last thought before I fell asleep
and one of the first the next morning.
All my life I’ve had cats.
Usually, I’ve had them one at a time, but
at present two adorable felines share my house.
Often, they share reluctantly, that being
the way with cats.
But, when they want to, they can be loving,
wonderful creatures with independent ways and
a
who-gives-a-damn attitude about life.
One of my cats’ names is Mitzi.
About fourteen years ago, I had another
Mitzi.
And long before that, when I was the same
age as the child to whom I brought such pain, I had
another
Mitzi. It’s a cat’s name; it suits them … maybe that’s why so many carry
the appellation.
My first Mitzi died of old age while I was away at college.
My second Mitzi disappeared one night,
never to return. I called shelters, placed ads and
combed animal
hospitals, but she seemed to have vanished into the darkness.
My third Mitzi looked at me through the bars of the AWA shelter’s cage
and tugged at my heart.
She’s a lot like the other two in color,
in temperament and she’s always been “my” cat.
She’s getting old now, too. By my
reckoning, she’s got be nearly fourteen, since she was several weeks
old
when we “adopted” her.
I’ve never had a pet hit by a car, but I
know the sorrow that accompanies the loss.
The young girl will probably never forgive
me.
Certainly, she’ll never forget.
What I want her to know is that I’ll never forget either.
Every time I drive past her house, I’ll
be reminded of the accident that rainy night.
Every time I look at my Mitzi, I’ll think
of hers.
Anyone who’s ever killed someone’s pet
accidentally like that must know how terrible it feels.
It’s a feeling I wish I had not
experienced.
I wish it could be undone.
I want that little girl to know how sorry I
am.
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