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This happened last night between 8:00PM and 8:30PM, roughly:
We're back from a day in New Hampshire and I am out inspecting the wild flora in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
beowabbit's overgrown side yard. There is a very light mist falling, the kind that feels good on a summer evening. I'm delighting in having found a tall Scottish thistle. Just then I turn to see, in a flattening among the tall grass, a dead cat with its tongue hanging out.
It is gray and white, and couldn't have been dead very long at all, I think. Aside from the tongue, it looks just like it's sleeping peacefully, curled up and not even stiff. My brain floods with all of the emotional chemicals you'd associate with a cat lover in such a situation: anguish, heartbreak, vague fear, early panic. Without poking it, I dash into the house and tellbeowabbit in a shaky voice that there is a dead cat in his side yard. He follows me out, worried in his own right because his garage clean-out might well have been the cause.
I lead him to the tall grass, now shaking. From the grass, up pops the cat, very much alive and probably not happy about the mist on it's fur. It looks at us warily, then gingerly exited around the wooden fence, away to wherever it was going. Maybe it's a neighbor's cat. Maybe it's stray or feral. But in any case, it's alive. I felt like a fool.
I didn't realize that my brain's wiring declares any unmoving animal on the ground with its tongue out to be dead. I didn't stamp or make a noise; it just didn't even occur to me to do so, in my state of shock. I spent the rest of the evening suppressing an embarrassment that wasn't entirely warrented. I hope the cat is home and safe, and doesn't know its nap could possibly confuse anybody.
We're back from a day in New Hampshire and I am out inspecting the wild flora in
beowabbit's overgrown side yard. There is a very light mist falling, the kind that feels good on a summer evening. I'm delighting in having found a tall Scottish thistle. Just then I turn to see, in a flattening among the tall grass, a dead cat with its tongue hanging out. It is gray and white, and couldn't have been dead very long at all, I think. Aside from the tongue, it looks just like it's sleeping peacefully, curled up and not even stiff. My brain floods with all of the emotional chemicals you'd associate with a cat lover in such a situation: anguish, heartbreak, vague fear, early panic. Without poking it, I dash into the house and tell
beowabbit in a shaky voice that there is a dead cat in his side yard. He follows me out, worried in his own right because his garage clean-out might well have been the cause. I lead him to the tall grass, now shaking. From the grass, up pops the cat, very much alive and probably not happy about the mist on it's fur. It looks at us warily, then gingerly exited around the wooden fence, away to wherever it was going. Maybe it's a neighbor's cat. Maybe it's stray or feral. But in any case, it's alive. I felt like a fool.
I didn't realize that my brain's wiring declares any unmoving animal on the ground with its tongue out to be dead. I didn't stamp or make a noise; it just didn't even occur to me to do so, in my state of shock. I spent the rest of the evening suppressing an embarrassment that wasn't entirely warrented. I hope the cat is home and safe, and doesn't know its nap could possibly confuse anybody.