When Life Stops Traffic: A Lesson in Compassion and Presence

A Meditation on Mortality and Grace

After dropping off my boys at elementary school, I was racing through my daily schedule in my mind, letting my clients know my ETA while driving, when life came to a grinding halt.

There was something in the road. I saw a grey, small object in the middle of a busy street. The traffic parted around it, and as I prepared to follow the herd and avoid the object, I realized it was actually a creature—and it was moving. There was a small grey and white cat in the road, trying desperately to get out of the street, but unfortunately it was smack in the middle. Any movement in any direction would be catastrophic. Thinking quickly, I put on my flashers and decided anybody behind me would have to stop so I could figure out how to help this creature. Several cars decided to stop with me as we approached the animal. Isn't it amazing how one person's behavior can influence the culture of the herd? Cars had been following each other, avoiding the cat and driving past with indifference. When I stopped, many stopped. One person's decision can influence so many around them.

This cat, with his grey body, white paws, and some white markings around its face giving it a perfect mask, flailed on his side and struggled to make sound as he panicked. It flipped from left to right, trying to move. I could see his rear end could not be moved despite his efforts to flee. I'm guessing a car hit it—probably broke its back, poor thing. A well-meaning woman approached quickly and reached for the cat. He used every ounce of energy he had to swat her with his claws and attempted to bite. As she pulled her hands back, I told her to wait as I ran to my car and found a towel. We now had a small group of onlookers trying to figure out how to help. I knew what to do. I covered its face with the towel, grabbed it by the scruff, and slid my hand under its back, trying to keep it flat. I asked someone to open my car, slid the cat into the car, then thanked the other people for stopping and hit the gas, racing toward the closest emergency veterinarian.

One of the perks of being a dog trainer who tours every neighborhood in town and has worked with half the veterinarians in the state at some point is that I know exactly where to go, where it's located, and how long it'll take me to get there in an emergency. I called ahead. The staff met me with a gurney in the parking lot, but the six-minute ride proved to be too long—the cat had died in the back of my car. A sad scene, but at least we had tried. I couldn't bear the idea of somebody texting on their phone and finishing the cat off on the road, then his family having to see its body lying in the street, being brutalized by people who are too busy or thoughtless not to run over an animal in the road.

The folks at the Emergency Clinic asked me to fill out a form. They scanned the cat—good news, there was a microchip. But I know there's a good chance that microchip was not registered or updated. I have scanned too many of these myself to think there might be a happy ending. Everybody opts to get the microchip but fails to either register it or update it as they move through life. Fingers crossed. The family will get some closure, I hope.

The staff thanked me for stopping, for trying, for caring. They gave me gloves and access to a hose. I took my weatherproof mats around the side of the building, and I stood on the side of the veterinary hospital, hosing off the mats which had some blood and other bodily fluids on them. By this point, I tried to imagine the beginning of that cat's day. Had the family let it out because the cat liked to be outdoors, or had this cat snuck outside? Either way, it was a beautiful spring morning after two days of rain. This poor animal had no idea it would all come to an end in a flash on the street. I wondered about the person who hit the cat. Did they see it? Did they think about stopping? Was it just an animal to them? Did they just go about their day? Thoughts wandered through my busy brain.

On the way to the hospital, I wondered if the cat had a moment of peace before it died. It was so stressed out when I found it in the road—panicked and frightened. I hope I gave it just one minute to think, "I'm okay now. I'm okay now."

I spoke out loud to the cat the entire drive. I do this with all animals. I work with dogs, but I have many conversations with crows, deer, and foxes when they come across me. I think humans are some of the laziest communicators on Earth. We rely on the spoken word like oxygen. We can't see or feel what is so obvious to so many who do not use spoken language. I told the cat I was sorry—I was sorry that humans had let it down. I said I was sorry I couldn't do more to help it. I counted down the minutes out loud as we approached the hospital, telling him to hang in there. Then, there was a moment when we were about three minutes away from the hospital when I had a chill run down my spine. I knew the cat was gone. I looked back. I didn't see any movement. I was hoping it closed its eyes and went peacefully. I continued to talk just in case. I told him I was sorry again and that I would try to find out if the cat had a home. I told the cat I would try to tell his people where he was so they wouldn't worry. I told the cat that caring people were going to take care of him, in whatever way they could. I wonder if the cat could hear me. I wonder if he could understand anything. I hope so.