mollycoulter.com

My boyfriend and I used to have a cat named Gillygan. He was a little human in a furry orange suit. He was a busy guy, always having things to do outside the house, so we let him roam in and out as he pleased. To be safe, I fastened a tag to his collar bearing his name and my phone number. Around 8:30 one morning as I unbuttoned my jacket and started up my computer, my cell phone rang.

“Hi, are you the person who owns the orange cat around Beaver Street?” the voice asked.

“Yes, that’s me. Is he in your yard? Do you want me to come get him?” I was half-scared he was hurt and half-annoyed someone was calling to “alert” me he was outside of our house.

“No, no. He’s fine. He’s really a beautiful cat and very nice, but we work in an office around the corner from you and he hangs out by our bird feeder to catch birds, and well, we have the bird feeder in a tree right outside the waiting room window so people can watch the birds while they wait, but now they’re watching your cat eat the birds,” she said. I was immediately horrified thinking of a poor little boy waiting to see the doctor, silently staring out the window as his mother sits beside him skimming Reader’s Digest.

“Mom!” he cries, tugging on her elbow. He points outside. Every head in the waiting room turns. His mother attempts to shield his eyes with her hands, but it’s too late. He stares as my orange cat tears into a Bluebird with his claws and fangs. Feathers spray as flying blood splatters the waiting room window, shocking the poor little boy into a violent seizure. A lifetime of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder follows.

“Oh, my God, I am so sorry. I won’t let him out when you’re open anymore,” I said.