I was walking home, and not far from it, but saw a small head pop out of an entrance to a front garden. Instantaneously I knew it was a cat, and in my curious inspection I noticed that it was a rather small cat. My worry commenced when I realised that it had no obvious form of identification, many high-pitched ‘meows’ directed at me, and did not appear to know its surroundings as fluently as its elder counterparts. I knew something was certainly wrong when it didn’t just run away from me like every woman I have ever loved, as most cats do. It actually followed me. My conscience made a cameo appearance in not letting me leave this being roughly equivalent to a crying toddler.
There were few people entering homes that I could ask whether or not they knew of the owner, and I got no confirmation. I was contemplating to use my mobile even though I’m in Edmonton, but considered to urge it to follow me home and see what I can do there. Eventually, someone was entering their home near myself and the cat realised the situation and we agreed that she take the cat in, and perhaps call the RSPCA. If anything new happens, I’ll spill.
Why did I spend three paragraphs elaborating on a story about a lost cat? I don’t know. My life isn’t exactly eventful, and situations like this make me ponder and ask myself ‘did I do the right thing?’