As I was driving just now, I came across a cat. It was there, in front of the car, tossing its head from side to side and jumping around in an odd, twisted fashion. Blood was sprouting from its mouth and was staining the black street in a dripping red torrent. Have you ever seen an animal die? I, unfortunatly, have - many times. I pulled over and switched on the emergency lights. Then I got off the car and took off my red and navy blue plaid flannel. I've learned that when treating a wounded animal - especially a cat - you should never touch them with your bare hands. They're hurt, and very frightened, so they'll lash out at you; they won't know you're trying to help them. It's best to wrap them up in a towel. But I was on my way to my mom's work, and I had nothing in the car except for my writing and drawing materials. So I gently picked up the writhing cat and wrapped it up in my flannel. Cars sped by me - not one person slowed down or offered to help. I got back in the car and turned off the radio - blaring rap music would not help my situation.

I spoke to the cat as gently and quietly as I could. It dripped blood all over the seat covers. I'll have to wash them first thing tomorrow. Along with my flannel, of course.

Now my hands are ice cold. I can barely feel my fingers. I don't know why I'm so shaken up - I should be used to this by now.

Well, I drove back home slowly, always speaking with the kitty. "Sh-shh... it's OK, baby... everything will be OK..." The cat traveled on my lap. There was no one in the car with me, and I didn't want to put it on the seat next to me. It was taken up by my box of map colors and art bag anyway. The cat quit twisting and writhing almost as soon as I took it in my arms, and all I could think about was getting home and calling up a vet or the animal hospital, at least. But my thoughts mean absolutely nothing; my plans were thrown out and dismissed. By the time I pulled into the driveway, the cat was dead.

I didn't have to check for a pulse or heartbeat to make sure. I just knew. After so long of dealing with animals, I could just feel it. Almost smell death in the air. Death has an awful smell. It always makes your intestines wretch and your stomach lurch.

The two youngest of my three cats instantly ran to the car. They climbed onto the hood and peered in at me. They must have been trying to figure out why I was crying. See, I very seldom cry.

I took the cat inside and was shocked to see that it looked nearly identical to the eldest of my cats, Racoon. I paniced there for a second. Racoon has been missing for almost 2 weeks. But no, this wasn't Racoon. This kitty was a girl. And she looked awful. Besides having a repulsive smell, death, in my opinion, is never pretty. It can be peaceful, yes, but never pretty. Half of her furry little face was bashed in. Her jaw was broken, her eyeball out of its socket, and blood oozed from her ear. Her fur was matted and caked with blood, dirt and oil. It was a grisely death for the little thing.

I wrapped her up in an old towel I use to dry off the cats after their bath and lay her down in the dining room by the back door. I'll bury her tomorrow morning.