I heard the worst details about our neighborhood cats from a stranger on the other side of the world.
I heard the details while I sat in a large English dining room lit only by natural afternoon sunlight shining in from bay windows, which provided pleasant lakeside views. Apart from the bay windows, all of these aspects were very unusual to England.
At the head of the table, with her back to the windows, sat a middle-aged woman who had just finished explaining that she had lived in the same small neighborhood where I came from, and knew all about Celia Allgood, the dogs, and many other life-long neighbors of mine. The world felt small again, but I still had a hard time believing it, until she provided irrefutable evidence regarding the neighborhood cats.
Oh what horrible things were done to these cats, she exclaimed. How they were treated in such inhuman ways! During this time I wondered if she preferred to have cats treated in human ways, but my thoughts were cut short by gruesome rumors of cats buried neck deep, lawnmowers, and detailed physical examination of the bodies that even Leo da Vinci would find unnecessary.
It's easy to imagine how a cat could find itself experiencing premature cessation. When sensing danger, a more modest animal will flee. Felines smugly insist that Danger is the out-of-place object and (with a hiss) will insist that Danger should flee. Danger is often a fast-moving Honda which, by nature, has listless momentum when confronted with the offended ego of a cat.
I was very familiar with the boys who behaved inhumanly. They were former friends of my older brother. This English woman slowly breathed each of their names the same way Voldemort said the word "Muggle."
Sensing that the injustice was keeping this woman awake at night, I did my best to put her at ease by explaining that the two ringleaders of the anti-cat club have since had a great deal of losing arguments with the Law (non-cat related), and have even had their shameful mugshots printed in the local newspaper. My attempt was successful, and she seemed to have lighter shoulders.
The last time I saw this well-traveled woman was in an English church parking lot. She was waiting for people like myself to exit the church so she could make an announcement. I asked her what news she had, she told me she had decided to join the Army. Given her age and physical condition, I imagined her at best as a civilian secretary in a bunker on an island somewhere. I asked her how she came to such a dramatic decision and she said it was inspiration from heaven. I heartily encouraged her, although I couldn't imagine what use she could be to the military.
Months later I discovered that it was The Salvation Army that I encouraged her to join, which made much more sense after recalling how often she felt offended by her original church.