Evidence of terror
There was this cat.
He looked like an LSD burnout. Like an old man never recovered from what he'd seen. One eye was scarred half closed and the other open too wide and wandering. He was wearing this dirty white fur and a weird looking head, alien shaped. When I stepped on the porch he looked at me, wild eyed and scared and ready to freak and when I took another step he ran. He ran through the rail in a leap, crashed through the boxwood bush in a leaf-trembling tumble and scratched himself up into a run out over the winter-dead lawn into the street.
In the street the cat ran against traffic running like he was chased by the devil. Or by devils. By terror, by horror, by unnamable panic.
He hit the car on the side of a tire, taking the tire's turn to be thrown down to the pavement and then lifted off into the exhausted air. A tuft of fur was torn off and puffed into the aerodynamic wind, flowing up into traffic like a bit of litter. The cat didn't land on his feet, like cats are supposed to land on their feet, but took a three somersault tumble coming up confused and crazed. The cat screamed, like cat's aren't supposed to scream. He screamed a scream taking everything into account, counting all of the luck up until now as a trick that was no longer working. This time he couldn't escape and this time everything was wrong, off balance. All of his lives and his feet were lost.
Taking all this as evidence of terror he ran again. He ran again and he ran into the second tire of the second. Not to the side of it but head on in nto a horrible crunch leaving him laying there, in the traffic. Broken. Dead. The cat was silent. The car skided, squealed, and kept going.