2008 Woodie Awards
RSSPanic Cat
Column
By Doug Moquet
Issue date: 10/19/07 Section: Opinion
The short rectangular strip of grass connecting our East Fifth house to the garage on Van Buren Street is quiet and unremarkable at 9:35 p.m. on this chilly night in October, except for the dead cat covered in saliva and sprawled out in the center of the yard with its watery eyes still transfixed on the moonlit sky. He looks as if he had fallen out it.
It is a morbid moment for the house that interrupts the jam session we had going. My roommate Trevor, my friend Sarah and I were just beginning to find a groove with the new Australian digieridoo and the African djembe drum purchased earlier in the day, when we heard a faint thud in the backyard and found the death in our backyard.
Earlier in the week, waking up for my 7:55 a.m. class, we'd seen a man outside the house, face down in the street with his body still on the sidewalk and bystanders encircling. Soon there was an ambulance followed by police cars - taking their time lifting him onto the stretcher.
There were no sirens when the ambulance pulled away. This is the same day I learned in my journalism course we'd be writing each other's obituaries.
I bend down to the cat and it's not breathing. The cat shows no visible signs of trauma until, after gently probing its belly, blood seeps from a puncture wound near its hip.
Its golden white fur and orange stripes remind me of a childhood cat that used to lazily grace my parents bedside. Suddenly I'm looking at Mingo and everything starts to fade in and out. I'm having trouble coping with this scene.
Inhale 1…2...3…4…
It is written into our DNA that when confronted with mortal danger, the body will activate what's called a fight or flight response, which releases adrenaline, noradrenalin and cortisol into the bloodstream. The central nervous system is mobilized by increased respiration, and the rapid heart rate diverts blood from the digestive tract into the limbs where it'll be needed to supply them with oxygen and food. Pupils dilate, senses are sharp and the body enters a state of war.
When this fight or flight mechanism is triggered naturally, it's called evolution. When the body enters into fight or flight response for no apparent reason whatsoever, it's called a panic attack.
When I looked into the eyes of that cat, the culmination of every rational fear I've ever had - rejection and the exposure of my secrets, shames and fantasies, the postponement of law school, the wasted hours spent playing guitar and dreaming about a future that can't exist and a girl I'll never meet, everything I wish I could have said to the people I love but couldn't - suddenly becomes incarnate and burns like a furnace in the center of my gut.
My mind struggles to cope with the nausea, dizziness, rapid heart beat and tingling limbs. I begin to wonder if the man in the street and the dead cat in my backyard are part of one big funeral procession ending at my doorstep.
My heart goes staccato. I feel faint.
Exhale…1...2...3...4...
But it's only 9:40 p.m. on a chilly night in October, I am reminded by the ominous bellow of Sarah's digieridoo and by Trevor's slow, sorrowful picking of an A minor chord.
We're standing outside in a circle now, playing our last respects to a cat in a cardboard casket, and there's nothing to be afraid of. There's a djembe drum around my neck and I should be playing it.
The rhythm is reassuring: Life is completely ridiculous and profoundly beautiful at the same time. The lesson: Death awaits us all, just don't fear living. Bury your inhibitions.
Doug Moquet is a senior journalism and international relations major and photo editor emiterus for The Brown and White. His column, Burning Down The House, appears alternate Fridays.
It is a morbid moment for the house that interrupts the jam session we had going. My roommate Trevor, my friend Sarah and I were just beginning to find a groove with the new Australian digieridoo and the African djembe drum purchased earlier in the day, when we heard a faint thud in the backyard and found the death in our backyard.
Earlier in the week, waking up for my 7:55 a.m. class, we'd seen a man outside the house, face down in the street with his body still on the sidewalk and bystanders encircling. Soon there was an ambulance followed by police cars - taking their time lifting him onto the stretcher.
There were no sirens when the ambulance pulled away. This is the same day I learned in my journalism course we'd be writing each other's obituaries.
I bend down to the cat and it's not breathing. The cat shows no visible signs of trauma until, after gently probing its belly, blood seeps from a puncture wound near its hip.
Its golden white fur and orange stripes remind me of a childhood cat that used to lazily grace my parents bedside. Suddenly I'm looking at Mingo and everything starts to fade in and out. I'm having trouble coping with this scene.
Inhale 1…2...3…4…
It is written into our DNA that when confronted with mortal danger, the body will activate what's called a fight or flight response, which releases adrenaline, noradrenalin and cortisol into the bloodstream. The central nervous system is mobilized by increased respiration, and the rapid heart rate diverts blood from the digestive tract into the limbs where it'll be needed to supply them with oxygen and food. Pupils dilate, senses are sharp and the body enters a state of war.
When this fight or flight mechanism is triggered naturally, it's called evolution. When the body enters into fight or flight response for no apparent reason whatsoever, it's called a panic attack.
When I looked into the eyes of that cat, the culmination of every rational fear I've ever had - rejection and the exposure of my secrets, shames and fantasies, the postponement of law school, the wasted hours spent playing guitar and dreaming about a future that can't exist and a girl I'll never meet, everything I wish I could have said to the people I love but couldn't - suddenly becomes incarnate and burns like a furnace in the center of my gut.
My mind struggles to cope with the nausea, dizziness, rapid heart beat and tingling limbs. I begin to wonder if the man in the street and the dead cat in my backyard are part of one big funeral procession ending at my doorstep.
My heart goes staccato. I feel faint.
Exhale…1...2...3...4...
But it's only 9:40 p.m. on a chilly night in October, I am reminded by the ominous bellow of Sarah's digieridoo and by Trevor's slow, sorrowful picking of an A minor chord.
We're standing outside in a circle now, playing our last respects to a cat in a cardboard casket, and there's nothing to be afraid of. There's a djembe drum around my neck and I should be playing it.
The rhythm is reassuring: Life is completely ridiculous and profoundly beautiful at the same time. The lesson: Death awaits us all, just don't fear living. Bury your inhibitions.
Doug Moquet is a senior journalism and international relations major and photo editor emiterus for The Brown and White. His column, Burning Down The House, appears alternate Fridays.
