Not all days are full of fun, love, and happiness. Some days hurt. Some days stay with you for reasons you wish they didn’t. But even those days are still something to remember.
As many of you know, my car has been a great source of joy for me. It is the culmination of a dream that started when I was very young and grew into something bigger than I ever imagined. Sometimes when I look at my car, I see my own reflection in it. Not just literally, but in what it represents.
There are parts of that car that mirror things I value in people: strength, power when you need it, a gentle presence, and the wisdom to know how to harness power without taking advantage of it.
I have been learning those lessons.
Most of the time, I am either just under or right at the speed limit. I know this car has power. I also know that power can cause harm when it is not respected. I see people who have been in car accidents, some through no fault of their own, and I refuse to be someone who carelessly puts another person, animal, or living thing in danger.
Last Wednesday, I was driving into work. Before that, I had stopped to have a very hard conversation as a mandatory reporter, so I was already feeling upset and anxious. I know it is part of my responsibility, but it still weighs on me. I never want anyone to feel like I am “tattling” on them. I try to put it into perspective: my goal is not to hurt, humiliate, or punish. My goal is to protect.
After that conversation, I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.
It was not more than two minutes later, on a two-lane highway, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. For a split second, it looked like the object had levitated out of the tall grass. Then I realized it was a cat.
The grass was two or three feet high, so I was almost shocked that I saw him at all. Everything happened so fast. One second, he was running straight toward the road, and the next, I heard him in my wheel well.
In the tiny space between realization and impact, I froze and prayed he had stopped before reaching my car.
I was not speeding. I was not driving recklessly. But I still hurt another living being in this world.
I turned my car around almost like something out of The Dukes of Hazzard, slid into place off the side of the road, and searched for the cat. He had made it to the side of the road where other cars would not hit him, but he was still visible.
Then I saw him raise one paw toward the sky.
I cried because I knew he was in pain. I knew he was still alive, even if only for a moment.
I carefully crossed the road and looked him in the eye. In that moment, I realized his life was most likely already gone. His inner eyelid had risen, and there appeared to be no life left. Tears fell as I stood there with the weight of what had happened.
I walked back to my car and retrieved the sun visor I had bought just four weeks earlier. Then I went back to him.
He was beautiful. All black. Large. Soft.
I gently scooped him into the visor and carried him back to my car. I drove to the emergency vet, still hoping I was wrong. Hoping maybe he was stunned. Hoping there was still a chance.
When I walked into the vet, the woman at the front said, “We will be right with you.”
Through tears, I blurted out, “I think he is already dead.”
She immediately understood that this was urgent and called someone from the back. They came and took him from me and asked what had happened. I told them he came out of nowhere and got under my tire. I told them he was not mine.
By then, I was sobbing.
A few minutes later, they came back and told me he was gone.
I asked what they would do with him. After all, I had taken this little life, even accidentally, and it did not feel right to simply turn my back and leave him behind.
They explained that they would contact the county where it happened, and someone would come get him. They would hold him for a couple of days in case someone came looking for their baby.
I thanked them and left.
As I sat in my car, tears continued to run down my face. I knew there was nothing I could have done. It happened too fast. But I still felt the loss all the same.
I love animals deeply. I would never intentionally hurt one. But even though this was not intentional, I carried the sadness of it all day. I kept my interactions with patients to a minimum. Eventually, I found myself going home early.
On the way home, I purposely drove past the place where it happened. I did not want to avoid it forever or let fear turn that stretch of road into something bigger in my mind. I cried again as I passed it, but I also felt relief. There was no evidence left on the road. Nothing visible to remind me of that painful moment.
That evening, I kept imagining the people who might be waiting for him.
Maybe a little kid was waiting for their beloved pet to come home, not knowing he never would. Maybe a teenager was standing on the porch calling his name. Maybe he belonged to an elderly couple, and he simply went out for a day of frolicking and never returned.
I felt their pain, too. I felt my own sadness, and I felt the weight of being part of their loss, even though I know it was an accident.
Eventually, I found my way to bed. When I woke up the next morning, I felt better. I was still sad, but the heaviest part of the weight had lifted.
I never want to forget that day.
Yes, it hurt. Yes, I cried. Yes, I wish with everything in me that it had ended differently.
But I was there to witness the last moment of that beautiful little life. I did not leave him alone on the side of the road. I saw him. I held him. I took him somewhere safe. I honored him the best way I knew how.
It was a hard day.
And hard days matter, too.
