It's a dog's life indeed

You walk through the tall weeds, stooping down. Your hind legs propel you smoothly, your fore-legs balance you correctly. Your fur rustles in anticipation as you examine your prey from a distance. It moves slowly and sluggishly but it can be fast as needed.

You edge toward it as your father taught you, making little noise.

It doesn’t notice you.

You circle to the left, gliding out of the tall weeds and into the tall grass. The green, unshorn grass crackles and bristles beneath you as you motion forward as your keen sense of hearing alerts you to the presence of something behind you.

You glance backward; your slanted eyes take in a human visage. You pay no attention to the witless thing and move on, blinking as you readjust to the light of the field in front of you.

You circle back into the weeds, traversing slowly back and forth toward the creature.

Now you’re within ten yards of it.

You can almost taste its warm blood in your mouth as you near it. A few more yards and you’ll be ready to pounce.

You move ever forward, keeping as prostrate as possible. As you move into the next yard a manicured lawn appears beneath your feet. You dodge it because it offers you no cover and dash behind the nearest tree.

You circle around the diminutive grass and traverse into the weeds.

Now you’re behind it.

Approaching cautiously, you wait. It turns, nearly seeing you rustling behind it.
You get a slight chill as you move into the thicker weeds, just in case you aroused his suspicion.

Hunting was strenuous when you were smaller, but now you’re skilled. Your eyes absorb the light outside the dim shadows, getting a better fix on your kill.

It looks straight into your eyes and you into its. Now is the time. Your powerful hind legs thrust you forward.

Being a feline has its advantages. Your front claws now extended, you grind them into the birds body on contact.

It certainly was the time.

The bird pecks at your face as you claw and bite your dinner. It pecks you with all of it’s might, but you swat it as though it was nothing. Finally the bird gives up the fight, allowing itself to be won as a meal.

You tear at it with your teeth. The warm blood trickles down your mouth and throat.

You savor the occasion.

You gnaw at it for a few minutes and then decide to show your trophy to your owners.

As you walk into your house, you notice one of the smaller humans making grotesque noises and flees at the sight of you. You continue to the eating hall and scratch at your masters leg, dropping the bird at her feet.

You’ll never understand why they shoo you out of the house with a broom whenever this happens.

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