Mr. Plow's Cruel Blade

Ding dong. The doorbell rang. I was still putting on my snow clothes when mom answered the door which revealed a bright snowy world. Two young children with sleds stood at the door. "Is this your cat?" one of the kids asked as he gestured toward his sled with a bloody white cat laying motionless on top of it. "The snowplow hit him," he added.

Boozer was barely alive, and suffering terribly. He wouldn't have stayed on the sled otherwise... I knew I had to let him go. My dad had other intended projects planned that Saturday morning, but he took on the awful responsibility of putting poor Boo out of his misery.

Boo was my cat. I was there when he was born, and chose him from Pooker's litter as the first cat I called my own. He was my big fat fluffy white cat. As dad took my doomed Boozer around the house to do what he had to do, I sat on the living-room sofa mourning my fluffy friend's fate, when I happened to gaze across the room at the china cabinet who's sparky clean glass reflected the downward swing of the hatchet in my dad's hand... and Boo was no more.

I went outside and walked down the street to find evidence of Boo's accident. It didn't take long to find a patch of bloody snow in front of Pooch Erickson's house. As I examined he scene before me, it was apparent that the plow had intentionally swerved to hit my cat who had been sitting on the cleared walk watching the goings on in the neighborhood. The kids had witnessed it, and kindly placed my bloody cat on a sled and dragged him to my house.

In Rhetro-spect, I should have sued someone, but I was only nine years old and didn't consider such a thing. I wonder how many other animals have suffered at the cruel blade of Mr.Plow?