Like you could possibly know that, seriously think.

You hear this story about a kitten being run over and imagine, (I think), a knocked down and bruised kitten, maybe with a broken leg or two and possibly a few broken ribs. I hear this story and remember the kitten I saw screaming even though it was literally half-smooshed. I saw a kitten get run over when I was eight. A stray had a litter in the woods near my house. My dad told me if I could catch one, I could keep it. I had told him to keep my allowance for that week and spend it on cat treats at the grocery store. Then I used my little hand shovel to dig a big hole. (It was big to my eight year old mind. My dad says it was small. I still think it was at least a foot across and deep.) I put a small blanket over the hole and sprinkled it with leaves (saw it work in a cartoon), then sat in the shade, across the street, being bitten by mosquitoes and throwing cat treats around the blanket (well, at the blanket, but I had bad aim). Thanks to my tasty efforts, the kittens wandered out of the woods, playing and frolicking farther out than they usually went. A brown striped one had been playing with a small toad or cricket or something for a few minutes before the bug made a break for freedom and hopped into the road and the kitten followed. Unfortunately a car was passing by at just the wrong time and flattened the lower half of the kitten. (The car never even slowed down. Looking back, I prefer to think that the driver never saw the kitten rather than that he is soulless. It really was possible that the driver never saw it. The kitten was brown and black and very small and it was playing on ground covered and overgrown with weeds, bushes, fallen leafy branches, and moss.) Anyway, when I say flattened, I mean absolutely flattened, flattened like Tom and Jerry cartoon flattened. But only the lower half. I was screaming. The kitten was screaming. My dad ran out with a baseball bat, thinking I was being kidnapped, because my mom and him had gotten in a big fight about whether it was even safe for me to be in the front yard alone and I had promised to scream bloody murder (oh the irony) if anyone so much as slowed their car down to talk to me. After a minute of explaining, my dad dropped the bat, picked me up and carried me inside and told mom to hold me and sing Lion King with me. Then went outside to end the kitten's suffering. I think he used the baseball bat, probably on its head, because the next time I saw the bat, the business end was so clean it looked brand new. We ended up holding a funeral for the kitten and burying him in a duct-taped shut shoe-box in our back yard. I named the dead kitten Mufasa, since they both died, and my parents used the story I was obsessed with to try to explain how it wasn't my fault even though the kitten wouldn't have been by the road if not for me.