One Not Unloved

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered.  Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows. Mt 10 v29-31

As we came over the crest of the hill, we saw it - a cat - crossing the road directly in front of us. We put on the brakes, but there was no missing it. Thump. THUMP. I didn’t want to look back. I did. Motionless, it lay in the middle of the road.

We slowed  …and then kept going, realizing there was nothing we could do.   

I couldn’t help but wonder, however. Every life has a story - even a cat’s. I wondered who the cat belonged to. Was it a family pet? Did it lay on children’s laps as they watched the made-for-tv movie? Did it curl up in the basket of colored yarns the childless widow knit another scarf from? Was it a barnyard cat that rubbed against the leg of the one who poured fresh milk into its bowl? Or did it not have a home to belong to? 

The questions could be asked as one: Was it loved? 

And if it was loved, what would the one who loved want for it now?

We turned around.

As we pulled up to where the cat lay, I got out. I slowly walked over to it. It did not appear as one driven over. It looked unharmed …except for the blood. It was smaller than a typical cat – maybe just a kitten. I leaned over and gently put my hands under it. As I slowly picked it up, its body moved. It was the last move it made. It then went limp. It died not on the road, but in my arms. I cradled it next to me, gently holding its head, petting it softly. The body was warm from the life it had had. Its fur was beautiful - pure black and as soft as any fur I’ve felt. It shined with a shine that typically comes only to those fed well.

I carried it to the nearest house that was in the direction the cat was coming from when we hit it. I knocked on a door. A woman opened the door and upon seeing me and the cat, turned noticeably sad. I told her what happened. She said it wasn’t our fault. The cat was not her’s but she said to try the neighbor across the road. She thanked me for caring.

As I walked down the hill, still cradling the cat, I again wondered. This time about my pants. They were new, never before worn, and white.  I looked down.  They were no longer pure white.  They were splattered with red. I could have carried him as roadkill and saved my pants, but I chose to carry him as one loved. I can find new pants.

The neighbor across the road said the cat was not his either and did not know who it belonged to, if anyone. Thankfully, he offered to bury it in the woods behind his place. I said that would be great. I asked if he could ask around before he did. He said he would.

There was a planter next to the fence where we stood. It was not planted. It had only a few weeds growing in it. Knowing cats prefer to be in the highest place, instead of laying him on the ground, I curled him as cats like to curl and gently laid him on the planter using the weeds as a bed. It was a perfect fit. He looked at peace. I was. 

Wiping the blood off my arm with some grass, I walked away. 

I had not found any who knew him. He was, to those I asked, unknown.

He may have died unknown, but he did not die unloved.

On the drive home, I gave him a name - Blackie.