The cat and the motor-biker.
When I was a young man living in London I had very long hair and used to go in to work on my motorbike, complete with leather boots and leather jacket. I had a great 350cc Enfield with ape-hangers and used to love weaving in and out of the traffic jams and breezing along with my hair flying loose behind me.
I had a job in a college, while I did my research, where I had been put in charge of the Animal House. I used to love animals. I took care of them. The downside was that I also had to kill them when they were needed for experiments. But I figured I could at least give them a happy life while they were alive.
One morning, making my way through the rush-hour, I saw a cat dash out in the road and get hit by a car. The back wheel went right over its head.
Instinctively I pulled in and went over to the injured animal. It was mewing horribly and trying to drag itself to the pavement. Its back was broken and its rear completely limp. There was blood coming from its ears and it was obvious to me that it was in agony and did not have long for this universe. Making a quick judgement I quickly dispatched it on the kerb.
It was only then that I looked up to find a whole bus queue looking aghast at me. They had just witnessed a Hell’s Angel dash a poor cat’s brains out in front of them.
I, as reverently as possible, laid the cat down in the gutter, quickly got back on my bike and drove away.
What would you have done?
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