Requiem for a Cat

Last night I had a chilling encounter with a deceased feline. As I drowsily made my way down a back country road the late night moon shone on the most unwanted of omens. My headlights danced back at me from the eyes of the most darling pussy cat. He stretched across the asphalt grandiosely as if begging the Grim Reaper for a belly rub. The minute I spotted him I immediately got hit by a supreme wave of despair. I rocketed into a break down, swearing my car out of respect for the dead. My question is, dear readers, how can one hit a poor unassuming pussy cat, and not immediately halt? He was a perhaps a family cat, that preferred to dine in the kitchen, rather than on rats. Maybe he was a barn cat. Possibly, he was a beloved friend and co conspirator full of mischief with a predisposition for sleeping in the rays of sunshine beside the kitchen window. We will never know. I hope someone runs over the person who ran over Mr. Pussy Cat, and never looks back. Karma.

Requiem for a Cat