The cat sleeps, dreaming of hunting. Paws twitch in the chase; claws flex to catch the dream bird rising on sudden wings from depthless pools; teeth and tongue work, tasting and devouring, nose and whiskers quiver. Then the deed is done, to the last ticklish feather. The cat’s tail switches slowly once or twice, and he is still again, crouching in tall dream grasses, awaiting a flurry of wings.
There are moments when you come to realize that you only thought you knew those you live with, and this is especially true when you live with a cat.
Our cat loves to spend time outdoors, and I like to oblige him whenever possible, after popping an allergy pill into the back of his mouth before breakfast.
Today I looked out the front door, and he was crouched on the grass, clearly fascinated by something.
“Have you found a cricket?” I crooned. (Yes, I talk to the cat.)
I walked over to give him a friendly pat and to see what he’d found. I could see, down in the grass, what looked like a worm thrashing, but rather vigorously for a worm. A white paw batted it, and it suddenly lay in clear view, white side up, a black stripe along its length, a darker back. It was not a worm. It was a tail, and just a tail - the last two inches of a small snake. One end narrowed to a tip; the other ended in a bit of meat. The head and all the rest were not to be seen. The cat commenced to munching, as if I’d slipped him a bit of chicken from the table.
I think I’ll leave him outside for a while. And he won’t be going out tomorrow. I don’t relish the thought of sticking that pill into his mouth tomorrow morning, but if I don’t, he might throw up.