Last week found me setting off down the A9 at 6.30 in the morning.
It was a sparkling day, which still felt like a novelty after our brutal winter and grudging spring, and made a visit to my dentist in Edinburgh a lot more bearable.
Up ahead, I spotted something in the middle of the slow lane of the carriageway. It looked like a small bin bag, shredded to ribbons, blowing and fluttering in the wind. But there was no wind that day. The morning was calm as paper.
The van in front of me indicated and pulled out into the fast lane to avoid it and I followed suit. As I approached, I realised it wasn’t a bin bag. It was a small cat. Hit by a car, flailing and thrashing, but unable to get up and make it to safety.
A split second later, and I had roared past. I heard myself roar, too, although the sound seemed to come from somewhere else.
The road was busy, even that early in the morning, with heavy vehicles, vans heading to work, and people visiting Edinburgh dentists because they’re extravagantly loyal to the practice that looked after them so beautifully as a student.
There was no safe way to do anything, no hard shoulder, no layby, too much following traffic to slam on my brakes, run back… Looking in my rear-view mirror, I saw lorry after lorry after lorry that didn’t have time to pull out.
Something cracked inside me. I cried and howled, like a child, imagining the little animal’s terror and pain. I thought about its poor owners, consoling themselves that cats can disappear for days, weeks, even, and still come home. Of course, I thought about my own two cats, and cried a bit more. This has been a rocky year for me, but I hadn’t cried once in 2024, until that morning.
I ought to have stopped to calm down. But I still had three hours of driving to get to my appointment. The random music on my playlist somehow tapped into my feelings, because it played sad songs all the way down the road.
After the dentist, I had been looking forward to seeing my daughter. It was the day of her last ever exam and I needed to give her a hug. Parents everywhere will know how we try to be bright and perky for our kids. But not this time.
I just said: “I saw a cat…”, broke down again and told her all about it. “I get it, I get it,” she said. And she really did, not arguing when I said I needed to have a rest and then get straight home.
So, it will come as little surprise to learn that I wasn’t in the mood for the four young twerps in the souped-up Audi who decided to have some sport with me on the road back.
I’m furious to admit I was frightened
My bold heroes had the genius idea of utilising the chevrons at the very end of the dual carriageway out of Perth to pass me at such speed that I thought a bomb had gone off. Then they jinked in front, inches from the oncoming traffic, and slammed on their brakes. They proceeded to speed up, gunning their big, farty engine, then slow to a crawl all the way to Ballinluig, by which time a hefty queue of traffic had built up behind and, I’m furious to admit, I was frightened.
It felt personal, because it was, as I found out on the dual carriageway. Instead of zooming off, they continued to crawl and speed, crawl and speed. I was afraid to attempt to overtake, so I hung back and allowed the queue of cars behind to pass, which it did without any problems.
Emboldened, I indicated to take my turn. Of course, they were having none of it. I drew level and off they parped again, before, predictably by now, braking right in front of me.
My, but they were having such a lovely time. Soon, the road would enter wilderness where I might have them all to myself. And, so, having no idea how long they planned to keep up their sport and no inclination to find out, I turned off the road at the Pitlochry exit and allowed them their mighty victory.
I hate that a dangerous road is made more so by certain people
You may be quietly suspecting that I must have done something daft to have got so badly up those young men’s noses. That my driving had been affected by my sad mood and had provoked them. That would be fair, but I know it wasn’t the case.
The only thing I knowingly did was be a lone woman in a car. Unforgivable, right?
I hate that I didn’t strike a blow for my daughter or yours, by taking action to bring them to account
And I hate that I didn’t memorise their registration number because I was too busy being afraid. This haunts and perplexes me.
I hate that I didn’t strike a blow for my daughter or yours, by taking action to bring them to account. I hate that that dangerous road is made more so by people like these.
But, most of all, I hate that I witnessed that crepuscular little cat’s final morning.
Erica Munro is a novelist, playwright, screenwriter and freelance editor
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