I don’t know how I can possibly phrase this nicely, so I won’t even try. I ran over a cat last night.
I had just picked up my sister from the Alliance Francaise where she had her French class, and was putting along the road, doing about 40 in a 60 zone, jabbering away about verbs and vocab and our mutual inability to retain information, when the black cat streaked out in front of us.
It didn’t sound pretty. I can best describe it as: crunch crunch BANG squish.
Stupid me just kept driving, not even registering what happened until my sister tapped me on the shoulder and said, “I believe you just flattened that cat.”
“OH MY FUCKING GOD I FLATTENED A CAT!”
“You better go back and see if you killed it.”
“KILLED it? Oh god! I killed it! That could be someone’s pet!”
“Yeah you better go back and see if it’s okay, we’ll have to take it to a vet and see if it’s wearing a tag”
“Oh fuck! What if it’s someone’s pet? What if someone bowled over my Harry like that!? Oh please please god let it be some mangy koala-eating feral cat that won’t be missed.”
I felt so guilty I felt I was about to throw up (my usual reaction to extreme guilt). We turned around and picked our way along the road, all the way back up to the Alliance back towards the University, but no luck! We could not see a mangled moggie anywhere! I don’t know what the hell happened to it. Either the noise sounded worse than it actually was and the cat survived, or it had been rapidly reincarnated.
After reassuring me that I would not be arrested for hit-and-run of a cat, my sister suggested we find a well-lit place to check over the car to make sure the cat was not splattered all over it.
(Her reasoning for this was that once our mother hit a rabbit when driving home from visiting me in Canberra. The Mothership thought she’d missed until she arrived back home and saw its lifeless remains hanging by the fluffy little tail from the front bumper bar. She would have given it a decent burial only the neighbours dog nicked off with the carcass before she could get to it)
So the first well-lit place I could find was the Drive-Thru at Braddon McDonalds. I stopped in the middle of the lane and Rhiannon hopped out, crawling around the car and peering underneath it.
“Nope, no pussycat.” she declared. “Oh hang on, let me check the roof!”
I think she was thoroughly enjoying my discomfort. We looked for a broken body, some blood and guts, but there was nothing. Not even a little trace of fur left behind. Somehow the cat must have survived.
We sat in the car park, furiously gulping down watery Fanta, the sugar calming my nerves.
“Well you’re lucky it ran to the side of your car, and not out in front of it. It would have been bad luck!” smirked my sister.
“Oh yeah! That was my plan all along! ‘OH NO, black cat! I better MOW IT DOWN IN COLD BLOOD lest I have myself some bad luck!'”
I’m so sorry lil pussycat 🙁