I'm sitting here at quarter to two Saturday morning sipping a nice cocktail - a new concoction, very much needed - pulled together from what I had in the house. I don't know if it already exists or if I’ve created something truly new. I doubt it. How often does THAT happen? It doesn’t matter, really. What matters is that it’s good to sip and it has alcohol in it. I need it for my nerves.
About half an hour ago I was driving home to Hoboken from WFMU. Westbound on Montgomery, headed toward Grove, I see this white and orange object in the oncoming lane. I couldn’t tell what it was. I squinted through my windshield and figured, Piece of clothing. Maybe an old stuffed animal. Then I was upon the thing. It was a dead cat. An orange tabby with a white belly.
I pulled up even with the cat, stopped and put on my four-way flashers. I got out of the car and walked over to where it lay, then crouched above it. Someone had just hit it. I can say that with assurance because I’ve seen many a runned-over cat in my day. Cats that have been hit a second time are pretty much flat. This one wasn’t. There wasn’t much damage on the face up side. If it weren’t for the blood-trail you’d think Kitty had decided to sleep in the street.
The face down side was another story. As I rolled him over, another cat - a gray tabby - came out from an alley on the north side of the street. It ran past me into an alley opposite, where our orange friend was headed, I suppose. Our orange friend had probably been caught completely unawares by an undercarriage. It had been hit mostly in the head. The left side of Kitty's face was smashed in, covered in fresh blood. Its right eye was dislodged, the fur over its right front elbow completely skinned away. There was two feet of blood smeared down the street. Kitty never had a chance.
People go fast down Montgomery. As I stood there, several Hondas and Maximas and Jettas went roaring past, stereos pumping to the max, doing 40 - 50 miles an hour. At that speed and that volume you wouldn’t know if you hit your own grandmother, never mind a fifteen-pound cat.
No one slowed down to see what I was up to. No one slowed down for anything.
I decided to move the cat out of the road before it became permanently bonded to the pavement (I hate when people keep running over some dead thing in the road, never thinking to remove it). I got my hands around its middle, lifted and heard a definite groan. I carried Kitty at arm's length and could swear I felt it purring. I laid it down in a huge planter on the sidewalk.
The planter was full of fresh dirt and I thought I could bury the cat in it but looked around and found nothing to dig with. Then I got alarmed, thinking about the groan I’d heard. Could it be the cat was still alive? I've seen cats get the hell torn out of them and live. I once extracted a cat from under the hood of a neighbor’s Volvo, where it had gotten firmly wedged in the fan blades when the car was started. The cat lost a leg but survived. What about this one? Did it have one life left? I shook it, hard. I squeezed it again. It wheezed once more but the wheezing must've been air being pushed out of its lungs. By me.
I stood around feeling stupid, wishing a cop could pass by so I could tell someone official. I didn't want to leave dead, bloody Kitty there for some kids to see first thing in the morning. I waited around a few minutes and asked passersby if they knew the cat (it had no tags). The first two looked at me strangely. The third guy didn’t. He was an Asian man, late twenties, nicely dressed, coming home from the train, like everyone else at that hour. I brought him over to the planter and he recognized the cat. I told him about finding it in the street and the first thing he said was, “Did you run it over?” I told him “No” but wasn't sure he believed me. He seemed to feel bad about it. He said something I thought sounded funny: “If it's still there in the morning I'll get rid of it.” I offered to do so, saying, “If I had a plastic bag...” I thought he might take the hint and go get me one. “If it's still there in the morning...” he repeated.
“If you have a plastic bag you could take it and bury it.” I said. He nodded. We wished each other good night. I flipped the cat back over on its “good” side then got in my car and drove home. I made the drink when I got through the door. It's almost gone. I think I’ll make another. Here's the recipe:
Three ice cubes, crushed
One teaspoon of honey,
One teaspoon of maple syrup
One teaspoon brown sugar
Two fingers of bourbon (I used Old Grandad)
Orange-Tangerine Juice
Sprig of mint
To one 16-oz tumbler add the ice, honey, maple syrup & brown sugar. Stir. Add the bourbon. Stir. Fill with Orange-Tangerine juice. Garnish with the sprig of mint
It tastes something like a Tequila Sunrise but the syrup and honey give it sweetness and body. I like it. But I don’t know if it’s new. I’m going to pretend it is just so I can give it a name.
I call it “Orange Tabby”.
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