Remember when Audrey Hepburn tossed that cat out of the cab, at the end of Breakfast at Tiffanys, as some sort of romantic display of freedom? Have you ever wondered what would have happened to that thing if George Peppard hadn’t put her in her place, and gone looking for it? I think I came across the grim result of what may have happened to Cat, if someone other than Capote had written the story.
I was walking to the subway from my house faster that usual, to avoid the cold any more than I had to, when this little guy slowly limped into the middle of the street and took a seat. I quickly snapped a photo of its black silhouette in the middle of the isolated snow white road and then realized that it was in really bad shape. I got closer, and took a more detailed shot.
Due to my hatred for cats, I kind of said “poor dude” and walked on. Then guilt set in. I thought of how horrible it must be to need help, and have someone document your pain as amusement. I realized that if I left, I would never be able to look at the photographs of this cat without a voice in the back of my head reminding me that this was the shot that represented me being a bad person. Someone heartless enough to walk away from something that needed help.
I turned around and went back to the cat just before it just rammed by a semi truck. I scooted it to the side of the road, called animal control to come and pick it up, and waited around for a bit listening to it wheezing for air.
I was hoping that by crossing a black cats path, and going beck to help it, would be good luck for me. Unfortunately though, I was told that I only absorb one of its lives. So when you see me crawling around at the age of 150, it has something to do with this photo.