No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

The first time I saw Cat, she was sitting in the road. She was resting on her haunches, as if lounging on a couch. However, sitting on the center lane of Clough Bay Road was hazardous to her health.

How do I get her off the road? I found a towel in the back seat and scooped her up, just in case she decided to panic and scratch me. She was a big cat, grey tabby with white paws. She could put a hurting on me if she wanted to. But she just flopped over, and I put her on the side of the road. At which point she stood up and wobbled back into traffic.

I scooped her back up and put her on the floorboard. Then I scooped her out of the car and laid her in the first cardboard box I could find when I got home. She didn’t say a word. She just stared at me with big yellow eyes- they weren’t exactly focusing, but she tried to stare at me, anyways.


I felt Cat all over. Nothing seemed to be broken, and she didn’t seem to be in agony, but I still wasn’t encouraged. She just didn’t look too hot. I did the best that I could for her- put a bowl of water in the box, a new towel, then closed the bedroom door for the night.

She was sitting in the exact same position in the morning as she was the evening before, both in the road and in her box: sitting quietly on her haunches. She was staring at me, the same way, with those woozy eyes.

She rode to my vet in the box, still staring at me. By this point, I was pretty sure that Cat had a head bonk, and this explained her demeanor—specifically, the way she refused to stop looking at me—or, at least, towards me. I deposited her with the vet tech, and told her that, no, I didn’t know much about her, and no, I really don’t think that she’s in very good shape, but I’d call a little later.

The vet was cheerful when he called. The news was pretty good. The only damage to Cat seemed to be a broken tooth and a concussion. He’d keep her over the weekend and see how she did.

Apparently I was about to become Cat’s new owner.

Confession: I hadn’t intended to be Cat’s new owner. I figured that I was going to do my civic duty, minister to a dying cat, and not let her suffer. But, once I scooped her off the road, a completely different series of events was unleashed, which was apparently going to lead to a large vet bill and a new pet cat.

I tried to look on the bright side. She seemed docile. She may be a nice addition to the family. I’d bring her home and see how she did.

Thus began a string of increasingly bad decisions on my part. One could argue that the worst bad decision was stopping the car in the first place, but….

Bad decision number one: not running the other way when the vet techs went to collect Cat.

The screeching behind the door was Cat protesting as they attempted to get her into the cat carrier. Wearing welding gloves for protection.

I was still somewhat stunned when I brought her to the house, between the drama at the vet’s office, and the hundred dollar vet bill that I had in my hand. Hence…

Bad decision number two: I brought her into the house.

I thought that perhaps I could socialize her before turning her outside. I’m sure that my kids were plotting secretly to make her an Inside Cat, and let her join Victoria in the house.

My daughter had bought her a new collar. My son had a name for her: Sahara. They were going to give her a warm welcome into the family.

Cat would have none of that. She huddled in the back of the cat carrier after we opened it, ears drawn back. She was still staring at me with those eyes. Except, now, I realized that she was glaring at me. She was probably trying to glare at me with those woozy eyes the night she was hit by the car.

I think she basically hated my guts all along.

I had figured that she would be an affectionate, docile, sweet little thing, appreciating all of the time and money and energy that I had put in her. I imagined her responding to our affection, then moving out into the yard to live with our other affectionate, docile, and sweet cats, and we would all live happily ever after.

But it was quickly evident that she was never going to be domesticated. Cat was feral, through and through.

She left the cat carrier at some point, and hunkered down under the bed, still looking like she loathed me. By that evening, she was gone. Back out into the wild, we supposed.

It was a relief, really. The pets in our yard had reached Critical Mass. My husband accused me of being the local Humane Society. We really didn’t need another cat.

Two weeks passed, and I rarely thought about her. I would pass by the little collar that Libby had bought for her, lying on a table, though, and feel a little sad. And then, I made…

Bad decision number three: I assumed that she was gone.

Yesterday, I found clumps of grey hair on the green carpet in the living room. Victoria sheds like crazy, but she’s jet black.

My husband was carrying wood into the living room, preparing to start us a roaring fire for a romantic evening.

I had a bad feeling….

My beloved old cat, Patch, had loved to hide in the fireplace. He would hop up on a ledge inside the chimney, and sit there for hours, especially when he was scared.

I got the flashlight.

There were two fuzzy grey ears, and two big yellow eyes, glaring down at me from the ledge.

Cat was back.

Or, a more disturbing possibility: Cat had never left. She may have been lurking somewhere in the house for all we know, sneaking food and water where she could, and then staring out from some dark recess of the house.

Drama ensued. My series of bad decisions were catalogued. Loudly. With some profanity. My husband tried to get her out using the fireplace poker. She disappeared farther into the fireplace. He threatened to light the fire anyway.

Finally, my husband relented, and we closed all of the doors to the living room, in the hope that she’d eventually climb out of the fireplace. She did, the next morning. I found her under the couch this time, glaring at me.

In the end, she found her way back outside. We think. I am still very careful when I look under beds and in dark closets. Even though I check the fireplace for her, I have to admit that I harbor some unkind thoughts- like, not checking the fireplace before we light a fire.


As I write this, I feel just plain stupid. But, even though it was just an ornery stray cat, and not a human being, I am a little comforted. I just went back over to the Book of Luke and re-read the story of the Good Samaritan (10: 25-37). I wanted to double-check something. And I was right.

Nowhere in the story did the victim profusely thank the Good Samaritan for his help, and there is no sign that he and the Samaritan ended up best buddies. And I bet that Samaritan got a heck of a bill from the innkeeper, too.