Monday, February 26, 2007

'I Don't Want to Live in a Tree' A plea against free-roaming

After Big Fred had been with us awhile, Daddy installed a cat door so he come and go as he pleased. Sometimes he invited his friends home, and we would find two or three stranger cats sitting around the house when we got up in the morning. During the day he liked to wander off into the woods, but he always came running, a bright orange streak across the neighbors' lawns, when he heard the magic 'Here, kitty, kitty, kitty' at suppertime.
Then one evening, Fred was brought home to us in a neighbor's car. The doorbell rang frantically, and there was Mr. Beal, carrying our beloved pet in a cardboard box. Mr. Beal had seen the hit and run from his living room window, ran out, recognized the cat, and hurried to us straight away. Fred's screams of agony were unbearable; there was blood everywhere, and pieces of his intestines were coming out of his mouth. My mother was on the phone to the vet when I charged out of my bedroom, and as she hung up she said, 'They are sending someone over, but they don't think they will be able to help him.'
Hearing this, my father unlocked the gun cabinet, took out his revolver and loaded it.

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