The Ugly Truth

Those who know me know I love animals. I have had at least one pet, usually two or three, all my life. I willingly allowed a family of raccoons to come into our house every day for three years to eat. I once stopped my car mid-road to move a turtle to safety. I take in strays. I donate to the SPCA. I buy cleaning supplies for animal services. I think the animal shelter is one of the saddest places on earth, and despite my beliefs in justice, religion and redemption, I think Michael Vick should spend the rest of his life in jail, watching videos of kittens and puppies.

I say all this because I, of all people, ran over my neighbors' cat on Sunday. My neighbors, Cathey Ann and Blackie, who are like family. And Bully the cat, the 18-year-old wise man of the block. The cat that all the others respected. The cat that was welcomed at homes up and down our street. The cat that liked to sit in my red chair and look out the window and sleep on top of my washing machine.

Because of Bully's age, the vet at the emergency clinic (where I was just 2 months ago with Phineas) said he wasn't a good candidate for surgery and so Blackie and I sat with him while the vet put him to sleep. Cathey Ann, bless her heart, was in the air somewhere over Milwaukee.

Blackie and I buried him next to Phineas.

And that's all I have to say about that.