It’s early morning and I am released from my nightly captivity of the house, I leap onto the deck railing with the smooth viscosity of crude oil flowing uphill.
From my vantage point I survey the garden for the slightest movement.
My constantly twitching ears catch the faint rustling sound of a trespassing rodent looking for food in the undergrowth.
Like a shadow on the moon, a black form with no substance, I jump down and make my way along the hedgerow. The siren song of the starlings announces my presence.
Oblivious to the screaming birds my prey continues to forage in the grass for its morning grain. The breeze brings his blood scent to my nostrils. It sets my hunting instincts on fire.
I bend low, moving silently, closer to the rodent. Then I stop, still without sound. I deepen my crouch, the sinews of my rear haunches tightening with a need to strike like an over-wound clock.
With a single leap I dispense feline justice. My prey has no time to cry out.
The temptation to devour my victory is a strong one. But the apes have been good to me recently. I will leave this one for them on their living room carpet. Their screams of delight are reward enough.