This post is a part of Blog Battle '07 that I am competing in with Adam Hammer. We will periodically give each other subjects to write about. You can read all my posts here. Please read his blog as well. You can view it here.
Todays Subject: I want you to write about the time you ran over a cat.
Todays Subject: I want you to write about the time you ran over a cat.
Driving without distraction is unfamiliar to me. I never pay attention to the road. The usual diversions consist of smoking, eating, text messaging, singing, and the occasional rubbing of my crotch to the thought of exchanging insurance information with a beautiful woman I have just collided with. Internal dialogue is usually enough to make me ignore my surroundings altogether.
My most recent bout with distraction occurred while driving to meet my mother and sister for dinner. I can’t pinpoint what caused my attention to stray, but I ran over a cat. I looked in my rearview mirror to see the cat pick itself back up and dart into a nearby park. I assume it went away to die. I hear that’s what cats do.
I felt bad. Don’t get me wrong, I hate cats unless they are used for punting, taxidermy, or attaching strings to their paws in order to create a homemade marionette. My guilt was fueled by the pain I more than likely caused the cat’s owner. I imagine the worry in an old lady’s voice as she asks her twelve other cats where there brother is. She will stay up late staring at a litter box labeled “Muffin” as tears dropping from her face causes her to slide off her plastic covered sofa and onto the floor. She will fall asleep there, in the spot where Muffin’s pungent odor lives on.
To top it all off, the cat was black. I had just (allegedly) killed someone’s bad luck. A superstitious man now has one less excuse. He can’t find a job and he can’t feed his family. He just lost his unemployment check on an exacta in the third race at Hollywood Park. Where’s the black cat that crossed his path; the reason that all this is happening? Lying by the side of the road tattooed with the tread marks of my Bridgestone.
So long, Muffin. My disservice to those you encountered on a daily basis is deeply regrettable. This is my tribute to you. It would be longer, but I don’t think it’s safe to continue writing this while driving.
My most recent bout with distraction occurred while driving to meet my mother and sister for dinner. I can’t pinpoint what caused my attention to stray, but I ran over a cat. I looked in my rearview mirror to see the cat pick itself back up and dart into a nearby park. I assume it went away to die. I hear that’s what cats do.
I felt bad. Don’t get me wrong, I hate cats unless they are used for punting, taxidermy, or attaching strings to their paws in order to create a homemade marionette. My guilt was fueled by the pain I more than likely caused the cat’s owner. I imagine the worry in an old lady’s voice as she asks her twelve other cats where there brother is. She will stay up late staring at a litter box labeled “Muffin” as tears dropping from her face causes her to slide off her plastic covered sofa and onto the floor. She will fall asleep there, in the spot where Muffin’s pungent odor lives on.
To top it all off, the cat was black. I had just (allegedly) killed someone’s bad luck. A superstitious man now has one less excuse. He can’t find a job and he can’t feed his family. He just lost his unemployment check on an exacta in the third race at Hollywood Park. Where’s the black cat that crossed his path; the reason that all this is happening? Lying by the side of the road tattooed with the tread marks of my Bridgestone.
So long, Muffin. My disservice to those you encountered on a daily basis is deeply regrettable. This is my tribute to you. It would be longer, but I don’t think it’s safe to continue writing this while driving.
You're up, Adam: Review the movie Snow Dogs. You aren't allowed to watch it.
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