My Karma Just Ran Over Your Dogma

Plenty of us have plowed over an animal or two with our car, but is it some kind of "girl thing" to completely freak out when it happens? Or have some of you menfolk also blubbered over the murder and/or destruction of one of God's fine creatures? Los Cuatro Ojos offers up this freaking out by a girl, but I should warn you, it's a little disturbing, so don't go over there if you are easily disturbed by seeing others disturbed over more than disturbing a bird.

Hey, what's the last thing that goes through a bug's mind as he hits the windshield?

His ass.

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It was October of 1981. I had a cream-colored 1973 Datsun 710 with over 100,000 miles (because when your father owns a towing service, you get the vehicle dregs for your birthday, the nasty crap that people neglect to pick up because the tow bill costs more than the car is worth. Dad had replaced the broken parts with slightly less broken used parts, hammered out the dents, spackled the hell out of the holes, poured a gallon of crappy cream colored paint over it and presented it like a long stem single red rose.)

Where was I? Oh right, driving to the high school junior class' float-building barn during Homecoming season. Two classmates accompanied me, and we were probably playing some popular album in my cassette player; let's say it was Foreigner 4 or maybe REO Speedwagon. We cruised down a lonely rural two-lane highway toward Simms Ranch, today a small oasis in an over-built cookie-cutting suburb south of Sacramento.

We gabbed and giggled with the innocence of youth, unencumbered by the tragedies and disappointments that jade you over time. We were teenagers. The world was our oyster, and my car was the cream colored pearl sliding through the slimy muscle of the boondocks. We were immortal. And then an orange tabby cat sailed into my right wheel well, crunching out its life and part of mine with it.

You see roadkill all the time, never thinking that a person took the life of that animal and may have been traumatized by it. Until it's your turn.

I was a shaking, adrenaline-fueled mess when I pulled over. My friend walked back to the cat and returned with a solemn face. "You don't want to go back there," he said. I had no idea what to do. There was no procedure manual in the glove compartment for whacking kitties.

The ranch houses along the quiet road were acres apart, but I felt I should tell someone about it, so we drove up the long dirt driveway of the nearest house. What the hell was I going to say?

When a woman opened the door, I nervously asked, "Hi, uh, do you, I mean, did you know anyone with an orange cat?"

"Yes," she said.

I told her I had accidentally hit it and it died.

"Oh, bummer." She didn't cry out or scream or anything. I was clearly more upset than she was. "Oh, poor Bummer," she said again.

It took me a second.

"You mean the cat's name was Bummer?" I asked.

"Yes. Well, it's not our cat, but our neighbor's. But you don't have to tell them. I will, you've been through too much already."

Bewildered, then relieved, we left. I was still shaky but managed to fold tissue paper into flowers that October night while completely pre-occupied with the thought of having taken the life of another living thing. Someone's pet. Bummer.

Fast forward a couple of months to basketball season. I was the manager for the boys varsity team, which is a glorified term for "gopher". I gathered up the uniforms that the boys threw on the floor while warming up, gave them water bottles during the game, and accompanied them into the locker room while the coach ripped them a new one during half-time (perhaps a peek at future parenting, and therefore one of my deterrents from it).

Coach and Mrs. Coach hosted a Christmas party (back then, December 25th was called Christmas) for the team at their house and Matt, their four-year-old took an instant liking to me. The feeling was mutual. He was such a cutie. (This is the kind of peek at future parenting you get that tries to persuade you it will be all puppies and rainbows). Later, the coach would tell me that Matt carried on around the house with his imaginary friend, Margaret (that's me, for you new readers) for a long time.

So anyway, at this party, Matt sat in my lap while we read one of his books about animals. We paged through and discussed goats and pigs and horses. Matt turned the page to the kitties and said, "We used to have a cat like that, but it got hit by a car."

He pointed to the orange cat. I slowly realized Coach's house was on that same two-lane highway as the float-building barn. Oh my God, I killed Matt's cat! Talk it through, man, just talk it through. Don't just sit there, you idiot.

"Oh, really?" I said. My body detached and floated above the noisy Christmas party with the turkey, stuffing, punch bowl, fireplace, Christmas tree, and the little kid sitting in the girl's lap with a book.

"Yeah..." said Matt.

"Ohhh...I'm sorry..."

"Yeah..."

I quickly turned the page as memories from October pushed their way into my brain. ("Oh, poor Bummer") My robot self read the words while the emotional me jumped up and down and screamed and cried and more or less had a heart attack. Not unlike the girl in the video on Los Cuatro Ojos' site.

Was I a chicken for not fessing up to Coach that I had killed the family cat? Or was it unnecessary? It's not like I was hiding some political scandal, afraid of ruining my career as a uniform picker upper or anything, but I never told them. And I could never tell Matt. Your imaginary friend is not supposed to break your heart.

Perhaps it was karma, or just dumb luck, then, that I should mangle a deer late one night on my six-hour drive up foresty Highway 101 to college. Thank goodness by then I had graduated to a four wheel drive truck, or Bambi would have done more than tear up my fender.


* * * SHOUT OUTS * * *

Tricia over at Papercages bitches about the heat so much, I could swear she's talking about Sacramento. And she bitches about driving long distances so much (anything past her driveway), I could swear she's talking about me. Regardless, I would like to thank her for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to her blog roll!

One of my favorite blogs to read lately is David (aka Munch) of Free Soup With Purchase. He's mean, funny, edgy and surprising - my kind of writer! For a sample of what I mean, check out a recent post entitled Here Comes Poor Charlie. And Thanks, Munch, for adding Nanny Goats to your blog roll!