I’m not a hard-shelled curmudgeon, and I also shy from being too much of a sentimentalist.
Tuesday afternoon, though, I found it a little hard to feel detached when I realized I had run over one of our cats — Beverly’s favorite.
Shortly after I backed from the driveway, I noticed a strange sound. Sounds like a meow, I thought. How could that be?
Two or three times later the same sound led me to think it was a squeak in my truck — and the 25-year-old with 180,000 miles squeaks plenty.
Then came the thump, like running over a small rock.
I don’t know where the cat — granddaughter Alayna named her Luna — was. I suppose in the engine compartment, where there is plenty of room with the Ranger’s little four-banger. Why she would have been there, I have no idea. She liked to lie under our vehicles on the cool concrete driveway, but always darted to safety when one was started.
My distress quickened by knowing we’d have to tell Alayna. We waited until after Humboldt’s football game that night — Alayna is a cheerleader — and when we did, Alayna teared up a bit and said, “I have to go.” For her I felt most sorry for the tragic event. She’s an animal lover, and often cuddled Luna.
Over the years we’ve have a number of cats, starting when we lived on South Elm in Iola and then on Madison Avenue. One other fell victim to our car in mid-winter, but we didn’t know about it until snow melted, which, as I remember, made it a little easier to take.
Another of our cats, a big yellow tom, apparently was struck by a vehicle, and came home dragging one of his front legs. That was in the 1980s after we’d moved to South Cottonwood. We had the leg amputated.
Tom — stout as an ox and vicious with anyone but me — lived several years, prowling the neighborhood on three legs.
It’s amazing how attached you become to a pet.
