This morning, I was suffering from a bad case of writer's block. I did what I usually do when the writing doesn't flow: I drove to a nature preserve and put on my running shoes. Running has this way of unclogging my brain, something Nathan Bransford (whose excellent Wonderbar novel launched this week) (yes, that was a shameless piece of product placement) has also found effective.
Anyway, after my run, just as I was about to get into my car, I heard a meowing. I was in a desolate parking lot in the middle of nowhere, so my curiosity was piqued. I looked down, and this is what I found:
I'm not a cat person - I'm firmly Team Dog - but something about this cat broke me inside. It was famished, thirsty, and frail. When I patted it, it was sticks & bones. But clearly domesticated - it didn't have a feral bone in it. I poured it some water and it lapped it up. Finished a whole bottle, in fact. It kept meowing, clearly hungry. And it was starving for affection - it kept trying to rub its body on my leg. And then it crawled under my car, coming out only when it wanted to rub its body on my leg again.
I couldn't leave it, so I called the animal shelter. They were great - they got there within minutes. The staff lady calmly put it into a box, then into the van. She told me a cat owner had called about a week ago, frantic about a cat she'd lost at that very nature preserve. Hopefully, this is the same cat, and there's a happy ending to this story. I'm going to call the shelter next week and make sure this cat found its owner. If not, I might just head down to the shelter myself and adopt the cat. It did a number on me, it did.
Anyway, this just goes to show that writer's block isn't always a terrible thing.