I saw a dead cat in the gutter yesterday afternoon. She got hit, hard, while almost making it across the busiest street in the village. Small and gray, her face was completely shmushed. I didn't mean to look because this sort of thing upsets me so. But I thought she might have been a toy or a stuffed animal and if so, I would have pulled her out of the gutter and onto the grass in case her rightful owner came back looking for her. Instead I recoiled in horror and console myself with the thought that she couldn't have suffered.I am wrapping up The Cat Who Read Backwards, the first in the LJB series of books about Qwill and Koko (and later addition, Yum-Yum). So far this story features two murders, bloody stabbings, in fact. Yet I'm captivated by how non-cat-person Qwill becomes enamored of Koko, just as I'm more upset by the real-life sight of the dead cat than I am the gory portrayals of the fictional murder victims.
Is it any wonder I foresee the next stage of my life as Crazy Old Cat Lady?
