Cat, black, female, in front of the patio door. Nose almost pressed to the glass. Crouched so low she is almost one with the rug upon which she sits. Ears laid flat. Tail curled tight to her body and unmoving. The yellow of her eyes almost completely replaced by the blackness of wide pupils. Oh so still. No motion at all to give away her presence. And then the involuntary shuttering of her jaw and a jittery, low yowl issues forth. The bird resting on the patio lattice remains oblivious to the cat’s company. Its head twitches about, looking at everything except the feline hunter only a few feet away.
The cat stutter yowls again and the tail twitches once. She’s every bit the instinctual hunter and yet I know the truth. Months earlier when a mouse was in the house she chased it, cornered it beneath the living room chair and then simply sat down and watched it. A great hunter? Nah. The instincts remains but the predator has grown soft in her domestic life. I don’t mind. In the bed at night, she snuggles in tight behind my legs.