Lucky

I got up early on Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday to run errands. It was about 25 degrees outside, one of the first cold weekends of this unseasonably warm winter.

My first stop was the Goodwill in South Philly. The back entrance looked like a bomb had exploded. Piles of torn clothes of every size, shape, color and condition. Damaged furniture and discarded comic books. Cracked dishware and dirty comforters. Damn, I thought. If it's too shitty for you, why would you give it to somebody else?

I turned away in disgust. That's when I saw him: a black cat curled inside a tire. He’d gotten himself halfway into a plastic grocery bag and given up. He stood upright with his eyes partially shut, trying to get just a little bit of sun.

I smiled and walked toward him, but he didn't move. And when I leaned down to pet him, I could see he was gone. Frozen. Someone had obviously dumped him here like so much garbage.

"Poor kitty," I said, as my tears involuntarily fell. "Poor, poor kitty."

"Oh, that cat's been there for days," said a man. He looked to be in his 40s. He was walking a Pomeranian that certainly didn’t look cold and certainly didn’t look hungry.

"Didn't anyone call to have him picked up?" I asked, as the dog circled around me. "Did he belong to anyone?"

"Don't know," said the man, as he picked through the garbage/donations. The dog also looked quite pleased with himself.

I went into the Goodwill and talked to the woman manning the door. “Everybody’s been telling me about that cat. It’s been there for four days,” she said. “I’m not touching that thing.”

I didn’t know what to do, so I picked up a sweater from the pile. I walked over to the cat and placed it gently over him. “I’m so sorry, kitty,” I said. Then I called animal control to have him picked up.

I’m not naïve. I know animals die on the streets—and in shelters—every day. According to the Humane Society of the United States, up to 8 million unwanted cats and dogs enter shelters each year, and up to 4 million of those animals die there. The reasons for abandoning animals are varied, from allergies to moving to house soiling.

I've even seen hurt cats and dogs before, but something about this one got to me. I’m sure it was partially because he looked like Lancelot. But I also think it was the way this cat died—hungry, alone, unloved, anonymous—very unlike my Lancie.

Lancelot was one lucky cat. Except for 11 months of his life, he lived in a warm, safe, loving environment. For whatever reason, he was among the less than one-third of shelter cats who find a home; the remaining 71 percent are euthanized.

Later that day I walked past Morris Animal Refuge. It wasn’t open. But for the first time since Lancie died, I thought it might be time to go inside.