He was breathing, which is always a good sign.
As gently as I could I picked him up, placed him on the towel, wrapped it around him, and put him in my car. I drove to the emergency clinic, the cat purring on the seat beside me.

“What’s his name?” the young man at the front desk asked as my towel and cat were whisked to a back room.

“Uh…John Tomkins,” I said.

“That’s different,” the receptionist said, writing it down.

“He was a pirate,” I said. “I mean Tomkins. I don’t know about the cat.

Author: Josh Lanyon