You see it on the side of the road and pull over, watching. His blue eyes contrast magnificently with his black fur coat, a fur coat that is riddled with mange. He stares at you, curious as you stare back at him, your heart breaking. It is just another cat, only this time it wears a flea collar, a feeble attempt by some, hopefully well meaning, human to protect against fleas that devour him. Already, the mange has destroyed what once must have been a beautiful animal. You watch for awhile, thinking about what your options are, when he begins to urinate on the lawn, meowing loudly at the pain that burns through him.

Suddenly, you realize that your options have become extremely limited, because you know that the mange is only a symptom of underlying problems. If you were to take him home, your own cats, the same ones that you had saved from a terrible death, would likely contract the FIV that riddles this one, and all of your pets would ultimately die. If you were to trap the animal and take it to the vet, you would be signing its death warrant. To leave the animal would ultimately result in death anyway, albeit a much slower and more painful one and you are unable to reconcile that with your beliefs. You’re angry, you want to strike out at the owners who of this noble animal, who would allow their pet to grow so weak. Yet, even if you could find them, you haven’t got the luxury of punishing. Your job is to salvage.

That night, you set out a trap and wait for four long hours as the stray sniffs around it. And then, it hesitantly enters, hunger overcoming fear, and the cage door snaps shut. You go to it quickly, examining the frightened animal as it curls into the far corner of the steel cage, trying to find defense from this new situation. Carefully, talking softly to the frightened animal, you place the cage into the truck, covering it with a blanket, and drive away. The only Humane Society is twenty-five miles away, but at least there (you lie to yourself), it will have a chance at life. There are no "non-kill" shelters within 1000 miles that would take a sick cat like this one into its facility, and you vow once again that after you finish with your day job, care for your 24 animals, complete school, and finish the freelance writing that pays for your own rescued pets, you will find time to locate funding and start a new shelter. One that is devoted to the critically injured, the "unsalvageable" animals. But, you know it’s never going to happen. If the chances of getting struck by lightening and winning the lottery were the same, you would be hit by lightening. Because your chosen path is not the "lucky" one. You could be wrong about the FIV, you tell yourself. Maybe it’s nothing life threatening, perhaps it is only mange, caused by poor living conditions. But you know you’re lying - you can tell yourself whatever you want, justify it however you like, but you still know that the cat will not live through the night, and that truth makes you shake with rage.

The Humane Society is closed, but you see a door to the far side and ring the bell, holding the trap in your hands. There will be no help for this one, you are sure. Yet, better a quick death than a long-suffering life. In this, animals do have the advantage.

A man opens the door, his long dark hair partially covering his face. He pushes the bangs out of his face, distractedly, and looks first at you, then at the cat you are holding. His dark eyes change suddenly from concern to rage and understanding why, you hurriedly explain. "He’s not mine." You hear yourself saying. "I trapped him in our neighborhood, after I saw him this morning. I don’t know what to do for him."

The man looks at me for a moment, and his eyes soften as he takes the cage from you. "Which neighborhood?"

You tell him your location. You explain the situation and why you can’t care for this one, why you won’t endanger fourteen lives on the off chance of saving one life. You tell him why you chose to bring him here, rather than the emergency clinic, which would have put him down immediately and then hit you with a $500 bill for their services. "At least here, he might have a chance at life."

And now he looks at you again, harder this time, as though he is looking at you in a new light. "That’s a lot of animals." He observes. "Is it just you?"

You nod. "They’re worth it. I find homes for those that can be adopted, but the remaining ones are the ones with problems. Diabetes, blindness, deafness… Well, you know."

He smiles, understanding your dilemma. "They have the most difficult time. It’s good of you to help where you can. Most people won’t even do that. They would just leave it to suffer, thinking that if they ignore it, it will go away."

You just shake your head, thinking about how close you had come to doing just that. "What will happen to him?"

He sets the trap on an examining table and looks closely at the cat inside. "Mange, probably FIV – I think the latter stages." He shakes his head sadly. "I doubt he’ll make it out of this room tonight."

Tears come to your eyes, and you walk over to the trap. You lean over the animal, whispering your regret, asking its forgiveness, and wishing more than anything in the world that you had the power to somehow help it. You rage at humanity, you rage at the gods, thinking of how irresponsible they were in allowing something like this to happen to a creature of their own making. The rage consumes you and you back away from the table, afraid of the anger that now envelops you. And then, almost without realizing it, you reach out a hand to the animal.

The cat arches its back towards you, friendly now, as though it can understand you and has accepted its fate. It looks up and purrs, the vibration shaking the metal cage. And you know that it probably does understand, and it forgives. You turn back towards the man, and he touches you lightly on the shoulder. "You did the right thing." He whispers softly, and you nod, not believing it.

You fill out the paperwork, realizing that you are somehow playing God by authorizing this gently creature’s death. You wonder how it will be for you when you die, for although you have saved those you could, you have also been responsible for taking the lives of others. Karmically speaking, that can’t be good. You pass the man your paperwork, and glance back once more at the half-dead animal. And then you leave the shelter, crying the entire way home for the loss of yet another life, cursing those who would not take responsibility for their own pet.

But that is the way of rescue. Sometimes, rescue is murder and the lines can be so blurred, so fragile, so undetermined, that even you are forced to question them...