Concern Over the Housecat

Photo of a cat with its tongue curled up.
by Megan McClain/Unsplash

Sometimes when my cat looks at me, I wonder if she ever imagines leaping on me and sinking her fangs into my flesh, for although she is a housecat (and a cute one at that), maybe there’s a flicker within her of wildness, a pinch of inheritance passed down through generations from ancestors who lurked in tall grass toward prey, crouching in careful and delicious anticipation, then leaping from their hiding spot and chasing antelope (or other creatures) and tackling one and sinking their fangs into the flesh, because surely that pinch-flicker still remains in my cat, and that opens the possibility of it growing into flames with which the tyger burns bright in the house of the night, burning so bright that my cat attacks me and gets to feast upon fresh meat for once, not food from a can or pouch or bag, and would the headline of my obituary — DIED FROM HOUSECAT ATTACK — cause horror or humor in readers, or a bit of both?


copyright © 2021 Dave Williams

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