Fluffy and I Will NEVER Forgive You If You Skip This Post. Ever.

I have spent my whole vehicle operating life swerving to avoid hitting things that just jump out in the middle of the road. When I was learning to drive I almost ran into a light pole because I was trying NOT to run over a group of seagulls on the way to school, and I absolutely HATE seagulls. I knew though, that just because I personally hated seagulls (who do nothing but steal your fries at lunch and poop on your head in between classes) and didn't understand why they existed, it was still a horrible thing to run something alive over. I’ve done everything possible to avoid hitting squirrels, too. Squirrels are always popping out in front of cars. I half way believe that commercial where one squirrel jumps into the road to make an oncoming car swerve and crash and then runs back to get a high five from another squirrel. Still, I do everything possible NOT to kill them. One time I stopped in the middle of the road and waited for it to decide where it wanted to be and get there. I held up TRAFFIC for that rodent. I’ve pulled over after nearly hitting a dog and called its owner so they could get it out of the street and ensure that it would not be run over. I've even make sure not to re-run over road kill!

Tonight, however, I couldn’t help it. I. could. Not. Help. It. I killed a kitty. I was driving in a residential area and I had just turned a corner onto a street and I saw something white dart out a just in front of the hood of my car and I screamed and slammed on my breaks. Of course, your car doesn’t immediately stop when you hit the brakes; it keeps going for a foot or more depending on your speed. I wasn’t going that fast, but my car didn’t stop where I wanted it to.

I held my breath for what seemed like ever... or thirty seconds, whichever is longer, and I didn’t feel anything. I thought I was in the clear until beneath my passenger side tired I felt a bump, and then another from the back tire and my car came to a stop. Still screaming I started looking around me to see, if perhaps it ran away. My foot fell off of the brake and my car glided forward and I watched the review mirror to see if I could see a body. I didn’t, and finally I stopped screaming, pulled over and started bawling hot tears.

I cried for about 20 minutes and then I called my mom hoping to hear some warm words of motherly affection. I had just left her house and was only about two blocks away. I called crying and told her my story, and that I had no idea what to do, and that I couldn’t see the cat’s body so maybe it had just limped off. This broke my heart all over again because there was a poor crippled kitty out there somewhere and I started bawling all over again. My mom’s best motherly advice came in the form of, “Just keep on going! Drive home!” WHAT?! Mother, really? I killed a cat and now you want me to run!? REALLY?! So I hung up on her.

I started my car to begin driving home, but I found myself making a u-turn to go back to the scene of the crime. I don’t know what I wanted to find. Half of me wanted to find that the cat was nowhere in sight, and half of me wanted to find its body, though I’m not sure why. Both options pretty much sucked. In option one I’ve crippled a cat and now it’ll have to have a pet wheel chair and it won’t be able to support its cute little kittens any more, and in the other I killed some little girl’s kitty-fluff-fluff.

At first, I saw nothing and then, there it was; the little white cat lying against the curb about 3 feet from where my tires had used it as a speed bump. I had to pull over again as I started sobbing once more. This time, I was not only sobbing but apologizing to the cat. “I’m so sorry Fluffy! I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you! There was nothing I could have done, Fluffy…FLUFFYYY!!!” So, in my grief I named the cat I killed, and I named it Fluffy. I have had several cats (I did not kill a single one of them, I swear) and I didn’t name any of them Fluffy. None of the names I ever chose were anything close to that. My cats all had real names, but in a moment of grief, this is the name I gave to the poor cat I killed. What is wrong with me?

I then called my roommate to tell her what I had done, and she proved once again to be a psychopath. After mocking my tears and calling me a murderer and threatening to tell her step mother named “Kitty” who happens to love cats that I killed a cat, she told me she wasn’t sure she believed my story because I hadn’t taken a picture and texted it to her. WHO DOES THAT?!!! Then she tried to convince me that the cat I killed was suicidal and that I was doing it a favor. She said the little girl who owned the cat probably dressed it up in horrible tutus and sweaters and that this was really a mercy killing. I’m not sure I believe that. I’m also not sure she helped much.

My best friend also called me to rant, and I was like, “Oh yah, your day’s bad?! I just killed Fluffy!” She then told me I was retarded for naming the cat I killed and that that was bad murderer etiquette, and next time I kill something in cold blood not to give it a name. Also, she says it was probably a stray cat and wouldn’t have cried if I were lying dead in the street. She said it would probably just eat me. I think she’s also a psychopath. Fluffy would never have eaten me.

With all of these psychopaths in my life, how come I’m the one that killed Fluffy? Me? The one who will be unable to drive after running over a cat for 40 minutes while she sobs and dry heaves on the side of a scarcely lit street at 10pm? ME? ME?!

R.I.P, Fluffy. Don’t know when you were born-August 22, 2010. I hope there’s lots of Fancy Feast where you’re going so you don’t have to eat dead people. Also, I hope there are no streets.