Mrs. Haines was a perfect candidate for the Good Samaritan Outreach Program. According to her profile chart, she had recently been widowed, and her sole companion was her black cat, Charlie. Mrs. Haines was in poor health and eagerly anticipated the visits and packages from the Good Samaritan volunteers.

         I was one of those volunteers, and the only thing standing between me and a four-day weekend was a quick visit to Mrs. Haines’ house. Mrs. Haines was at the doctor’s office for a check-up; all I had to do was leave a care package on her porch.

        I had never met Mrs. Haines or visited her, but I found her house quickly. Once I was there, it took seconds to drop the package behind the rickety porch swing, sprint back across the weedy lawn to the car, and jam the keys into the ignition. Eager to begin my long weekend, I
stripped the gears into reverse and pressed hard on the gas. The car lurched back, faster than I had intended. I slammed on the brakes, but not before hearing a sickening thud. I knew I had hit
something; as I ran behind the car, I could only pray that it wasn’t the cat, Charlie.

       “Oh, Charlie!” I groaned softly. Blood matted his soft black fur, and he lay very still. Then a leg twitched, and I was able to breathe again. My heart pounded as I gingerly placed him onto a makeshift bed of old Wall Street Journals in my car.

       I drove feverishly to the nearest vet. When I finally reached Dr. Muller’s office, I rushed in and declared that I had an emergency. Dr. Muller calmly accepted the cat and then banished me to the waiting room.

        I paced nervously, unaffected by the room’s restful photographs of peaceful sunsets and
frolicking kittens. Noticing the receptionist’s curious stare, I abruptly sat on a slick, faux-leather
chair and pretended to absorb myself in “Impress Your Friends: Ten Tricks to Teach Your New
Puppy!”

        I was re-reading the first paragraph for the hundredth time when the veterinarian reappeared. “Ms. Harrison? You brought that cat to me in the nick of time. He was in bad shape,
but thanks to a successful surgery, he’ll come away with just a broken leg, some bruised ribs, and
multiple cuts. I’ll be frank with you, Ms. Harrison. That cat doesn’t have many lives left!” Dr.
Muller chuckled and the receptionist rolled her eyes. I had a feeling that she heard this joke a lot.
I wasn’t amused either. Dr. Muller coughed self-consciously. “Well, you can take him home; just
keep him calm and give him his medicine.” He nodded at the receptionist. “Sally will finish up the paperwork and give you the meds. We’ll send you the bill by Wednesday.” I nodded mutely; I was relieved that Charlie would be okay, dreading the surely enormous bill, and anxious about
telling Mrs. Haines. I doubted she would be relieved at Charlie’s “good” fortune.

      I drove to Mrs. Haines’ house slowly, half-hoping that she was still at the doctor’s office. At her door, I took a deep breath and knocked. I heard feet shuffling inside, and I cringed inwardly as the door opened slightly to reveal Mrs. Haines’ frail face.

      “Yes?” She peered at me suspiciously.

      “Um, I’m Samantha Harrison from Good Samaritan. I’m here about your cat. This may come as a shock, but I want you to know everything is all right.”

      “What? Are you saying something happened to Charlie?” The door opened another inch. I opened the screen door and beckoned toward my car.

       “I’m sorry, it is about Charlie. I’m—well, I hit him with my car this morning. But it’s okay, he’s not dead—I took him to the veterinarian. I can’t tell you how awful I feel. He’s in my car. If you’ll follow me, I can show you that he’s all right. The vet said it was okay to bring him home.” I paused to catch my breath and to see how Mrs. Haines was taking everything. She looked bewildered. Poor woman. First her husband, now her cat.

     “Please, Mrs. Haines, don’t be upset. It looks worse than it is.” I opened the car door.  Mrs. Haines gasped at the sight of the shorn cat. Stitches crisscrossed his body like a baseball and a white cast enveloped his small leg. Feeling even guiltier, I began stammering more apologies.

     “Mrs. Haines, I am so, so sorry. Dr. Muller assured me that Charlie will live and be as good as new in a few weeks. I’m so sorry. I will pay for all the veterinary fees.”

      Mrs. Haines suddenly stood very straight. “You’re darn right you’re paying.” Oh no, she
was angry. I opened my mouth to reassure her that I would accept all responsibility. But she wasn’t finished. “That’s not Charlie. That’s the meanest cat in the neighborhood. Bit little Johnny Holmes on the face last month, and he’s always picking fights with other cats. Vicious thing. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it’s not funny.” And with that, old Mrs. Haines spun around, hobbled up her steps, and slammed the door.

     Overwhelmed, I sank onto her dilapidated steps and let my shoulders sag. When I wearily lifted my gaze, I was alarmed to see Mrs. Haines standing in front of me. But she gave me a small, apologetic smile and handed me a plate of cookies. She patted my arm gently before limping back into her house. Encouraged by her kindness and unspoken apology, I straightened my shoulders and headed for the car. There was only one thing standing between me and my weekend: I had to figure out what to do with what was now a very expensive stray—and if Mrs. Haines was to be believed, preferably before he woke up.

 

Charlie

By: Theresa Ruwe