Little Cat's Yarn

I was hunting a deer buck in the wood when I heard a distant murmur. Turning upon that disturbance I witnessed an unacceptable sight: a squirrel buck entering a garage house, one similar to the one I own. I slid toward that mirage, hoping the hunt would both be realized and satisfactory. The squirrel was an easy feat. I bathed in her neck blood and dressed myself in a lavish fur coat of defeat. Nearing the end of my death dance I heard the same murmur I had heard earlier that eve, with one difference: the sound was upon me, all around me, deafening. I recalled the horrid deer buck, as she sat upon the hill bathed in the glow of the shy moon. I began to slide away, to exit this horrid garage house. But this garage house was unlike the one I owned, the exit door was covered by grey blocks. I had learned long ago from an elder feline to always remember your escape route. But the familiarity of this garage house had acted as a deception and I was left eating crow. Or squirrel buck, as it were.

Stuck in the garage house. Minutes turned to hours as days became the sand of my sorry hourglass. I recall little of this horrid time. A feline without food nor warmth, downtrodden and unrequited. I vaguely recall a white tempest falling from the sky. I have seen such things since then and I am none the cozy towards him.* Retched, horrid ghosts. Scaring a royal feline, such as myself, and for not a reason. Upon the ninth day, when I was on my last life, the garage house was flooded with light. The smell of squirrel and field mouse and weasel buck filled my olfactory. The Old Factory, back in action. A surfeit of light, horrid bird taunts, the dew of morning's hunt, all that was once taken for granted - nay, hated! - was now generously accepted. God's grace. And a dish filled with feline fodder. "It's good to be home," I told Bitch. It's good to be home.

*Little cat is apparently afraid of sheets to this day.