McCavity the Cat lay frozen in time, his eyes struck in the moment of death. The body lay upon its side, its arms outstretched as if reaching out for something (anything) to help him from whatever it was that cost him the last seconds of its life. He was an old puss. Had to been either a young 13 or a late 12. He had the grey beard, the mottled skin around his joints. McCavity had been an active one in his youth.
I creaked upon my haunches, knowing I may not be able to get up. The rotund girth of my thighs, as they stretched the limits of my slacks, did not help me balance well. My jacket was spread open: they would not close. The well layered mass of fat made it hard to breath in this position. But I had to see, had to risk the fall because, you see, McCavity was my cat. This was my beloved puss. He loved cookies.
Had I not been a veterinarian forensic detective, with twenty years of conceptual experience, and ten of those years in private practice, in the field - the sight of my poor cat, laying there in distress, it's body cold by the wet Niagara waters nearby, would have broken me. Perhaps I would cry later. Perhaps a lot. Perhaps...too much.
The task at hand was to bring McCavity into a transport bag. I brought along a Cracker Barrel store bag, it would do - I just had to take out the tasty pork sandwich first. Awkwardly using a broken pencil and my finger to kind of drag him into the bag, I thought, after royally disturbing the area around his body, that I probably should have taken photos. I stopped and panicked, "Is it too late now?"
I put the bag to the side and took out my 110 camera. Lots of folks have gone digital, but not me. That's just asking for trouble. 110 is the way to go. Sure you have to send it to the one place in the country that still handles physical film. But, it may cost twenty times more, and the shots are crap and it takes three to four weeks, but that suits me just fine. Why upgrade if you know what you know, right? I hate people with 'camera phones' - what's their beef?
I almost stood up, but teetered back instead. I rolled, because my body's shape is just right for it. I rolled almost completely over, but flayed my arms out, like a child, and came to stop before I went down the wet embankment. My clothes soaked up the wet mess of the damp dirt. I smelled urine - all kinds of it.
With some effort I stood and re-positioned my hair. It was a utilitarian cut, cut in such a way that it sent the message that I was not afraid to grow hair and plenty of it. My pudgy face was framed within that bowling cut like a puff-faced Buster Brown. Now he (or her) knew style! I shifted my practical shoes and pulled at my belt before proceeding.
A few shots with the Instamatic and McCavity's death throes were caught forever. I wound the film forward, the rotary dial the only sound in the little copse. Not wanting to bend down again, I just grabbed him by the tail and threw him in the paper bag. I rolled up the top, much like how my mom would prepare my lunch when I went to elementary. I shook him a bit to make sure he wasn't alive. He remained still. I sighed in relief. Then I opened the bag again to make sure. Yep. He's still dead.
I looked around the copse for any clues. Just trash. "You did not deserve this McCavity." I said it aloud. I said it so the killer could hear me. I said it for McCavity. "That bastard is going to pay and I'm just the type of asexual veterinarian detective to do it."
I took him and waited at the Greyhound stop for the 3:45 PM. Time to head back to the City of Dreams and found out what made McCavity lose his (dreams).
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