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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “In Plain View” Down in the Dirt, v195 (the 5/22 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Final Frontier the Down in the Dirt May-August 2022 issues collection book		get the 420 page May-August 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Bluto

Bill Tope

When I was a little girl I watched my cat
get run over by a car. He was one year
old, almost full-grown, a Russian blue
that I’d named Bluto.

The auto that killed him was a sky-blue
Cadillac, now with a streak of cat’s blood
on the front bumper. Rather than stopping
when he struck Bluto, the driver continued
on down the road, running over and killing
him instantly.

I don’t remember whether I was taking
off for elementary school that day or just
arriving back home, but I was standing
in my front yard, facing the street when
the incident occurred. The driver was
clearly visible to me.

I saw that he was a middle-aged man
with a bulging neck, thinning, greasy hair
and thick, purple lips. To this day I have an
aversion to thinning hair and thick lips. And
he had the effrontery to lean on his horn as
he was murdering my cat, as if we had
caused him some inconvenience!

I didn’t cry. I just stared at the spot where my
pet cat lay, blood welling up over his blue fur.
No one approached or offered comfort. I felt
utterly alone. Someone must have phoned up
the highway department, because within
fifteen minutes, a white city truck pulled up
and out stepped a man.

He had with him what appeared to be a coal
shovel, with which he scooped Bluto’s lifeless
body into a large black plastic bag. He then
deposited the bag in the bed of his truck. Spy-
ing me staring at him, he approached. He
was old, probably somewhere in his fifties, and
sported a white hard hat, a neon-orange vest
and gray pants and work shirt. In the pocket of
his shirt was visible a pack of Old Gold cigarettes,
the kind all the old-timers smoked in that
era. He wore thick-lensed, wire-rimmed
spectacles.

“This your cat, Little Girl?” I stared at him
some more and nodded. “Well, don’t worry,”
he said. “We’ll take good care of her. My
name’s Andy,” he added.
“Him,” I corrected automatically. “Bluto is a
boy cat.”

“Him, then. We’ll take good care of ol’ Bluto.
Yes sir, we’ll give him the best funeral this
city ever saw, okay?” I nodded again, ready
to believe him and about to cry and not
wanting anyone to see. “Alright then, you get
on home now,” he counseled. “Bluto’s in good
hands.” He paused. “I’m sorry about your
cat.”

It wasn’t until some time later that I realized
that Andy probably dumped Bluto, “body
bag” and all, unceremoniously into the
village incinerator, but hearing those kind,
sweet words just then, and from a total
stranger, meant everything in the world to me.

They meant that even a cat, run over by a
mean man in a car, had dignity and deserved
some respect. I never saw Andy again to
thank him, but his words and his kindness
stayed with me for many years to come

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