Wednesday, Aug. 29, 2012, was a glorious sunny day here in Vancouver.
I needed to dash off on an errand. I backed out of the driveway and felt the front right tire go over a soft lump, followed by a crunching noise. I parked and ran out of the car, hmmm, nothing in the driveway.
Then I saw our cat, Zora, running fast to our backyard, front legs looking fine, back legs stiff and moving in unison, hopping like a rabbit. Oh no!
I chased after her, calling her name. I searched our bushes, and could not find her. Sadly I went on to my task, returned home and told my husband, Ed, that I may have killed our cat.
After Ed left for work, I slowly searched the blackberry briars that grow along our backyard fence and found Zora. She was still, sitting upright, way back in the thorns. I laid on my stomach and reached for her, scratching up my arms and stomach in the process. I could not retrieve her. She was making soft “meew” noises. Convinced that she had internal injuries and would die, I brought a sleeping bag and pillow outdoors and laid down as close as I could to her.