An odd chore, an odd package

Last week I found a dead cat in my laundry room.

I came in the back door and went down to the basement to adjust the temperature on my apartment's hot water heater. Some unidentified schmuck had turned it all the way up for some reason, damaging both my fingers and my gas bill. The room inhabited by the laundry machines and the four hot water heaters, one for each unit in the building, was illuminated by a single exposed bulb connected to the ceiling. The cat was lying in the middle of the room.

At first I thought it was sleeping. It was average-sized and gray. I recognized it from the few times I'd seen it in the past scurrying away from me on the back stairs of the building. It looked almost peaceful, lying on its side. I stood for a moment or ten, peering at it, watching with the intensity of a professional fire juggler. Even the slightest elevation of its ribcage would have unleashed a wave of relief.

Nothing.

This is the part where I'm supposed to kick it, I thought. But what if it wakes up? It'll be mad. It might hiss and claw at me. Or what if it wakes up but it's actually only partially dead and is an angry zombie cat, and I have to kill it with above-average gruesomeness all over again in order to restore balance to the Universe? Or what if it's just a simple dead cat lying in the middle of my laundry room? I didn't want to touch it.

Luckily there was an abandoned sweater on the shelf opposite the machines. I grabbed it and lightly swung it at the cat. Nothing. A respectful kick. Nothing. It was entirely dead.

But whose was it?

I went upstairs and penned the following, made copies and then taped to my neighbors' doors:

Ron, Julie, Carol, Dakota & Dude in the basement*

I wanted to let you know I discovered a dead gray cat in the laundry room, right out in the open, so it must have happened today (Wednesday the 24th). I'm not sure if it belongs to-- to whom it belongs. I am sorry for your loss.

-Name, top floor
phone #

*names changed to protect the innocent

The next day one of the building's newest tenants, whom I'd only met a couple times prior, called me asking if I'd heard from anyone else. I told her I hadn't and gave her a quick rundown of how I found it. She said she was sorry I had to find it. There was genuine sympathy in her voice. It wasn't a big deal, I told her, truthfully.

She was sweet to say that. I wondered, not for the first time, if she was single. I plotted to ask her out.

Friday morning rolled around. On my way out the back door I checked the laundry room and the cat was still there, untouched.

So nobody claimed the cat? Apparently, it didn't have an owner. Not in our building, at least. It lied down on a concrete floor and died under a single lonely light. I sure hope I don't die that way.

I called the management company and apprised them of the situation. The girl said somebody would be over to take care of it. "It's been there three days," I said, hanging up. That evening the cat was still there. I triple wrapped it in garbage bags, tying each layer tightly. Then I put it in a cardboard box that happened to be in the garage. The box still had foam peanuts in it. I tucked the stiff plastic cocoon into the peanuts as if preparing it for shipment, taking care to nestle it into the center of the package. I folded the box closed and unceremoniously deposited it into one of the trash cans that stand sentry outside every garage in every alley in the city.

Then I went on with my day.