A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song. ~Maya Angelou

A couple days ago, on my drive into work I noticed a black and white spotted cat. It had been hit, and was dead, lieing in the middle of the road.

In the few seconds I glanced at it, it appeared to be a housecat. It was well-fed, plump. (Unlike my well-gorged round kitties.) In the moments I passed it, I wanted to stop. But what would I have done if I did? Scoop it up in my arms? Move it to the side of the road? Take it to the nearby house? What would I say? I watched in my rear-view mirror as the small lump of fur got even smaller.

I remembered someone coming to my front door and telling us they hit our dog, Donny. A maltese. It was my mom's dog, and it was the only dog we'd had up until then. It was very sad. One of my sisters was crying (she had seen it) my mom was crying and the woman who had driven the car was crying. It was unavoidable... shit happens... I don't remember if I cried or not...

I saw the cat on the road on my way home that evening. I had hoped that someone who loved that cat would have seen it, and if they did see it, take it back to their home and bury it. I pictured the mother or father wrapping the cat in a towel, and digging a hole, placing the cat within the hole and covering it back up. Perhaps telling the kids that it was a terrible thing that happened, but terrible things like this does happen. All of their hearts would heal, and eventually they wouldn't be as sad.

Instead, it's small body was out in the cold, and I feared someone would hit the lump just to be spiteful. To smear the cat. And again, I wondered if I should stop.

I didn't.

The next morning, the cat was gone. Perhaps an animal got it... or maybe a the cat's owner saw it and took it home, or maybe a person like me did something about the cat, took it up to the home and knocked.