Stronger Than a Car

When I went outside with George in the evening we - or rather George - found NOT MY CAT lying by the road. He looked strangely twisted and at first I thought it was Fred because George went over to him and sniffed at his paws. Most probably he had been hit by a car: One of his front paws was limp and swollen (though luckily not broken as it turned out), his nose was bloody, his face was grey and smutty, and there was a bad cut beneath one of his eyes. When I got closer he panicked, ran off on three paws, and disappeared into the barn behind the house (which is always locked so that I couldn't go and look for him). I spent the next couple of hours trying to coax him out and learning that I really suck at lock picking. As soon as he crawled back into the yard I snatched him and carried him inside. It was past 9 pm by this time. 

As he wouldn't eat or drink anything during the night and the morning and never even tried to get up I took him to the veterinary hospital. The vet succeeded in finding an ID tattoo hidden in his ear and contacting his owner, a woman living in the neighbourhood - who was anything but pleased because I had taken NOT MY CAT to the vet's. Instead of asking how the cat was and what exactly had happened she kept asking whether I really hadn't known that he belonged to her, garnished with a sharp remark about me "always" taking photos of cats on her meadow (which happens to belong to my landlord, but well). She even hardly said "Thank you!"

Hrrrmph.

At least I know now that his real name is Murphy.