Yesterday I decided to hit the highway, (seeing as I'm writing a novel about living on the highway,) and something happened. I decided to go to a place 2 hours North of Perth. Not quite the Nullarbor but there would be roos, red dirt and road trains and I would surely be reminded of the feeling of riding one of West Australia's big, straight roads. I followed so many massive trucks laden with MASSIVE mining machines and flimsy looking accommodation units. (WA is single handedly keeping the world economy ticking over.) Anyway, when I reached my destination, a monastery, peaceful but for the 300 road trains driving straight through the middle of it every day, I stopped and looked around. There on the side of the road was a tiny, black and white kitten. It was dead. No sign of injury, I imagined it caught in the rush of air as one of the big trucks passed. And there I was, once again faced with a body to pick up. (I couldn't leave it, there were children visiting.) 'It's just a kitten,' I told myself. All those years ago I remembered saying, 'It's just a boy...' Yesterday reminded me of frailty and ferocity, and caring. No more pats and purrs for the kitten, no more adventures for the boy. The kitten's owner, a child perhaps, would have been so sad. I thought again of the boy's parents, his father who came to see where it happened...
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