Don’t get me wrong. Michael loved animals. He cared about them. He had a few pets himself. A couple of cats and a guinea pig. The worst day of his life was when he had to take his dog to the vet and have it put down.
One day he was driving along in a fair hurry. He was late again, for a meeting in a town a few towns down the line. Driving through a village, he accidently hit a cat with his car.
He’d hit the cat full-on with his bumper. He continued to drive. He felt awful. It was his fault. He had been driving too fast. After a little longer he stopped. He thought he’d better return to the scene. He turned his car around. The cat might be in pain. It must be someone’s pet. If it was dead, he should inform the owner.
He stopped his car and got out. The cat was lying on the front lawn of a house. It was still breathing. He felt terrible. He knocked on the house door. There was no reply. He knocked again. No answer. What to do? He couldn’t leave the cat lying there in agony, dying slowly and painfully. It might be unconscious, but he still had to do the humane thing and put it down.
He went behind the house and looked in the open shed. A spade was there. He would have to use that. There was nothing else. He almost choked at the thought. I have to do it. I have to do it.
With one hefty swing, the poor cat was put out of its misery.
He took the body to dispose of it.
Carrying the dead cat by the tail, and in tears, he walked in front of his car. There, stuck on the bumper, was another dead cat. The cat he’d hit with the car. The one he’d killed with the spade had simply been sleeping in the sun.