Tabby Cat

Did I ever tell you once, stepping onto the porch to grab the chunky Sunday edition of the morning paper, I found a murdered tabby cat hanging limp from my brass door handle? The cat's wispy white fur matted against its rust-stained skin in places, and the dangling paws wobbled hollow in the breeze. The horror and general shock of the moment stunted the easy morning, and the scene lingered, twisting in me. My eyes welled and reddened with the threat of tears for a tardy and desperate catharsis, but I remembered I didn't have a cat. The murdered tabby simply wasn't mine. I remembered I had never had a cat at that house. Nor a dog. And the morning started moving again.