Dead cat, when I first saw you lying there I thought you were sunning yourself. As I came over to give you a pat I saw a fly buzzing around and noted that you weren’t trying to get it. Then I realised you were dead.
Cut down in the prime of your youth, maybe six months old and calico in colour. I’ve heard people pronounce it Ka-LEE-ko but I prefer KAL-a-ko. Life was not kind to you in this country, and I don’t pretend to know how the universe works but I would like to think you have moved onto a better place. Not somewhere in the sky where there is nothing to do, but some place where cats get a better deal. Somewhere like Weller st Geelong West where every cat gets its own 1/8th-acre block and a kind family to look after. There, the people who pass by on the street are friendly and will always stop to give you a pat if you want it. You can spend your summers indoors, poured across the lino-covered cement, and the winters are mild.
Dead cat, you are the third of your kind I have seen lying wretched and stiff in the gutters of this town during summer. And if I could I would resurrect the Pharaohs and the armies of ancient Egypt, I probably would. It’s possible that they would get the Koreans in a headlock and not let go until receiving the promise that cats would be treated better. But let’s face it, it’s more likely that those burly 7foot Nubian slaves would slay the Koreans where they stood. Dead cat, the worst is over.