February 11, 2002

Finnegan, he of the recently radiated nasal cavity, is going through a renaissance kittenhood. One of his new favourite games is to grab plastic grocery bags from your hands by leaping into them face first. Once in his possession, he proceeds to shove his entire body in, do a few spins and alight, fully engulfed by polethylene but looking like he's the cat's meow (ha!) He ends up wearing a haughty, don't-I-look-dignified expression on his cute little face. The other cats just look at him like they're saying "Dude? You're wearing a plastic bag. Get over yourself." Well, long enough for Finnegan to rustle the platic and get Megan's play instinct tweaked.

The other new-to-him game is playing Make The Bed with Daddy. Just this month he has discovered the sheer thrill of flouncing through the clean sheets as I vainly attempt to get them in place. The other cats have been playing this game with me for years. Well, Sam I believe has retired from the sport. He's much more content to sit like a lump in my chair. The perk of being 12 years old, I suppose. I was especially blessed last night with a doubleheader - both Finnegan and Megan volunteered to help me get the bed made. I had to just sit there on the bed and laugh at the two of them shooting back and forth. Makes me so glad we rescued them, Finnegan from the animal shelter (by way of PetSmart) and Megan from the side of the road by a gas station in St. Catharines. They are going to love the house once we're moved in, with the stairs to zoom up and down and the (eventual) back yard to play in, supervised of course. We will never ever let them wander loose. I think it's insane of people to say in one breath that they love their cats, then let them outside to a world full of danger. The consequences of this are far, far too great. I've seen first hand; I know.

(Note: the following story is not for everyone. Stop reading now if you don't want to know all about the consequences.)

It was the spring of 1978; I was 14. One early evening my 2 friends and I were skateboarding up and down the hill that our street was built upon. At the bottom of the hill, our crescent ended at the primary street that ran through our subdivision. After skateboarding for a while, we decided to take a breather and sat on the grass between the sidewalk and the curb by the side of the main street. Nearby, there were some folks sitting on their porch, watching the world go by. While we were sitting there, a kitten no more than 6 months old made its way over to us after visiting the other people. It was a very friendly little orange striped thing, and it bunted and purred all around the three of us. We saw there was some traffic on the road and decided we should hold on to the cat until the traffic cleared, so it would be safe. Before we had the opportunity to act, the little thing jumped up and streaked out into the road, directly in front of a car. It hadn't a chance.

The memory of what happened then is burned into my brain forever, so crystal clear in my mind's eye. It happened in a split second but will always replay in such agonizing slow motion. The driver had no time to stop or swerve. He struck the cat head-on, stopping the car some 10 feet past where he hit it. The kitten's dead body (for it was surely killed instantly - perhaps the only saving grace of this story) bounced and bounced and bounced, the last throes of its nervous system. It was as if there was an explosion of springs going through the poor thing's body, given the height of each bounce. Our eyes were riveted to the cat, helpless to turn away, drawn to the sight of this little cat's death dance. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to us, it was still. We then saw the driver, standing by his car, a stricken look on his face. He kept repeating "I couldn't stop. It just ran out." He asked us if we knew where the kitten lived. We numbly replied that we didn't know. One of the people from their porch came over and told him that the cat lived across the street. Half in a daze, he walked up to the door of the house and knocked. We could see a woman answer and the driver speaking to her and motioning towards the cat lying in the road, a small pool of blood forming underneath it. The woman ran down her porch, dressed in her robe and pyjamas. As she neared the road and saw the cat, she screamed out "No!!!!!!!!" and began crying uncontrollably. She picked the lifeless body up and carried it back across the street and into her house, wailing tears of grief all the way. As she passed the driver, he told her "I'm so sorry. It just ran out," but she didn't say anything to him. He returned to his car, wearing a blank expression on his face, then drove away slowly.

After it was over, we stood there for a few minutes, our 13 and 14 year old brains trying to digest what we had just witnessed. For the longest time afterwards, all I could see when I closed my eyes was the bouncing lifeless body of that orange striped kitten, which not more than a minute before had been twisting and twirling and purring between my legs and through my arms. When, a few months later, we found our cat Boots I would go outside with him all the time to make sure he stayed away from the road, even though we were on a quiet crescent. I didn't want him to die, bouncing in the middle of the road.

That is why I am so adamant about people letting their cats roam free, and part of why I dote on our 4 poo-heads.

On a brighter note, the Winter Olympics are underway! A surprise bronze for Canada yesterday in the women's 3000 metre long track speedskating. Tonight could be our first gold, if Sale & Pelletier do the expected and skate the pants off the competition in the long program. Here's hoping they do it. Go Canada Go!

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