Swiftest End

There are two teachers in our small school: myself and another woman named Ms Hamilton. She is a single, four-time divorcee in her late fifties who teaches in the primary grades. She is a self-described hermit, but she is also lonely. She doesn’t like to be around people but is saddened by being alone. She has dealt with a number of significant health related issues in the last year. I’ve come to wonder if her illnesses are not a Munchausen-ish affectation. She has also suffered episodes of severe depression and mania, both of which were very real.

In the middle of last winter, Ms Hamilton acquired two cats from the animal shelter in the city to assuage her loneliness and depression. It was an odd choice, I thought at the time, because she had never had cats before and so wasn’t really a cat person. But whatever. If they gave her something to come home to and talk to, well then that’d be better for all of us.

Things were fine for a while until she decided that two cats was too much. One of the cats was particularly animated, and so she decided it had to go. Though it was her choice, she was apparently all broken up about it. She said she couldn’t bring herself to actually take it back to the pound and drop it off, so she asked me if I would do it. Sure, I said. Whatever. It’s a cat, and not my cat, so why should I care, right? So on my next trip to town, I dropped it at the pound like so much trash at the dump.

Then one night recently, as I left work, Ms Hamilton told me, “[Cat’s name] is going away. Maybe he’s already gone.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “You don’t know if it’s gone or not? Are you having someone put it down?” She began to cry and said she didn’t want to talk about it. I took that as a yes and immediately went home and called the person she had asked to do the deed. I didn’t really care about this cat, but all things considered, I figured I could fix up a little something under the stairs and keep it as an outside cat. Too late, though. He told me he’d shot it and watched it run off into the woods to die. I dunno. That really pissed me off. This was the second cat she had had someone else bump off for her.

The next morning morning, Ms Hamilton walked in my office. She was distraught and – choking through tears – said that she needed my help. She said that all she had asked of the guy who was supposed to put the cat down was that it be quick. But as she opened her door that morning to come to work, she found her cat just outside her door, meowling to be let in. The bullet had gone clean through, and the cat was bleeding out both sides. She let him in and rushed out of the house. The kind of help she needed was clear.

A few minutes later, my old truck puttered and jostled as I drove slowly over the narrow trail along the river while listening to Morning Edition playing on the radio. Our little town is eerily quiet that early in the morning, and imagining the great bang I was about to make made me tight inside. After less than a mile, I stopped and unzipped the cat’s carrier just enough for its head to poke through. I tied the end of a small rope into a slip knot, slid it over the cat’s neck and pulled it tight. Dragging the cat out of the carrier and over to the nearest tree, I tied the other end of the rope into a loop around the tree’s trunk and, as I cinched it, pulled the cat closer and closer until his check was resting firmly against the tree.

A moment later I stood in the cool of the morning, waiting for that last minute of life to drain away. It’s a hard minute to witness, for even though I placed the bullet at the base of the back of the head to ensure the surest and swiftest end, the animal still struggled on its side and kicked with both back legs, digging a bare spot into the dark earth under the tree.

Another few moments later, and I was back at the school, greeting the children as they came in from the bus. I didn’t see her then and didn’t seek her out. I couldn’t bring myself to offer comfort to the one who had led me to such violence so early in the morning.