I have a cat. I have had Shelby for years. We almost grew up together. I got given her for my seventeenth birthday and I’m now thirty-five. I’m not sure how many of her nine lives Shelby has already spent. Cats are independent creatures. They’ll come home looking innocent after being chased by a puma and demand dinner as if nothing had happened.
But it was my neighbour, Owen, who gave me the greatest concern. He was one of those modern teenagers with no regard or respect for anyone else. He told me that only effeminate, spineless creeps would have a cat. He said if he saw Shelby on the road he’d run over it, or if he saw it outside my property he’d shoot it like he would a common squirrel.
I was really glad when his brakes failed and he went over a cliff. How did that happen I wonder?
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