Kalah Allen

I was walking home in the early hours—Thursday, June 15—when I saw your cat on the corner of 55th and Lincoln. I can't help but say hello to every cat I see. I slowly walked toward him saying, "Hey, buddy." He looked at me, trying to decide if I was a threat. He opted to bolt across the street. He didn't see the oncoming station wagon, and neither did I. I diverted my eyes as he was swept beneath the wheels. The driver didn't see him coming, and cursed his timing. I plugged my ears to block out the mewls of pain. I continued walking, crying with my fingers stuffed in my ears. I racked my brain thinking of something I could possibly do to help. I couldn't bring myself to walk up to him to read his tag. What good would that have done? Would I call to tell you your cat is dying in the middle of the street? I resolved to write this. When I was 10, someone ran down my cat. I found his body right next to the curb and assumed some asshole went out of his way to hit him. I just wanted you to know your cat was not killed maliciously.—Anonymous