I ran over my girlfriend’s cat two years ago. I was high. I don’t think that was the reason I ran over her cat, but if I explained it to her I’d have to explain that Dan and I had just finished roasting a bone, because if I didn’t she’d ask me if I had, and if I said I hadn’t she’d know it was a lie. I hadn’t seen the damn thing all day and we’d just rolled into the street when I noticed the ugly stain on her parents’ driveway.
I parked it at the curb and Dan and I got out to take a look and, yeah.
Dan did something he usually didn’t do. He told me he’d take the blame for it. I didn’t believe him, but he helped me bury it in the backyard, and then we waited in the house for her to get home.
Francine was too upset to talk, but she kept trying to talk, kept asking us questions, kept weeping and sniveling, changing her mind every new second whether she wanted me to hold her or not, whether she was madder at Dan or me; me cause he was my friend of course, Dan because he kept insisting he killed the cat. She finally got sick of it and told him to shut up and get out.
I don’t credit Dan with a lot but somewhere in his resinous dome there must have been brain enough to suss out Frannie and my chances of getting hitched. We did get married, eventually, and Dan was set. If we’d broken up somewhere down the road the debt would have been done, but I don’t intend to run out on her, and she’s happy enough with me. And Dan, Dan’s got his own personal favor machine. All he’s got to say to my wife is “Chris killed your cat that time, and he was top ten toasted,” and my suitability as a mate and decent member of civilization is voided. Of course we have three cats now, all adopted. It might be worth it to be single and living with clear sinuses, but I don’t think I’m that willing to start all over again. So I won’t acquit myself in this lifetime.
Unless I run over Dan, I guess.