What the dead cat taught me

Tonight I left a local coffee shop and returned to my car only to find a beautiful calico cat. She was laying on her side, face upward, and pivoting as though rolling over. I thought to myself, sheesh, Chris was right; why did we shell out $100 for a cat when these things run wild? Within nanoseconds I realized this kitty was not asking me to rub its belly.

She was dead. I shrieked. Then I shrieked again. I'm not sure why this alarmed me, but I know for a fact that nothing was there when I left my car. I would have stepped right on her as I walked to the curb. Sven, my darling mini-lop, was the last lifeless domesticated animal I encountered, and that was more than a decade ago.

In my cold-hearted "urban" days, I used to turn and march onward from most everything that slowed me down or stepped in my way. I wanted to kick pigeons for crissake! Today I stopped in my tracks. What was I supposed to do? She wore no collar. I stared for a few minutes and realized I had to step into my car and drive away. Doing so bothered me immensely.

Since I left Chicago, my day-to-day activities have been void of such unpleasantries. At one time I was immune to rats, people defecating on public transit and other creepy crawlies that inspired terror in "out of towners." These days, the most vile experience my ordinary dealings hand me is the occasional car spider or a running shoe caked with dog poo.

Nearly three years have passed since I returned to Minneapolis. While on certain days I miss Chicago something painful and I struggle with decisions long since made, moments like these make me realize how balanced and "real" my life here is. And as the blood returns to my icy veins, it fills me with gratitude.