I'm the one who found your unwanted kitten. He was huddled on the side of the road—soaked from the early morning rain. He cried piteously as I scooped him up—he had been hit by a car not long before. I put him in a shoebox with a soft towel and scratched his tiny head as I drove to the vet.
His injuries were extensive. He already had an upper respiratory infection and was bleeding from his nose—but we suspected that was more from the impact than from the infection. His left femur was crushed and the base of his tail had been ripped open.
You disgust me.
He wanted to live—he was fighting . . . hard.
I wanted him to live. I wanted to see him grow up into that handsome cat he was going to become. But no, I had just seen his x-rays. There was no hope for one so small, not with the broken femur and the possible internal bleeding.
I left with a quiet box and drove out to my parents' house. Out in the country, under a big poplar tree I buried him. Quiet rain drops rained down from the tree. He wont be alone there, out under the tree where daisies grow and birds sing.
My heart aches.