The Great Hunter
We always had a cat
when I was a child,
and Little One was my favorite.
Pretty,
intelligent,
affectionate,
a great hunter.
She had one small idiosyncrasy, though.
When she caught a mouse
or a chipmunk
or some other scurrying creature
in the woods that took up
at the edge of our yard,
she always brought it
to the kitchen door
and mewed to be let in.
When Mother opened the door,
Little One dashed
through the kitchen
and down the basement steps
where she deposited her catch in her dish
to enjoy her fine meal in the style
to which she was accustomed.
“Oh, that cat!”
Mother would cry,
stamping
her
foot.
My mother, however,
was not one to be defeated,
especially by a cat.
She learned to recognize a mew
muffled by a mouthful of tiny creature,
and she simply refused
to open the door.
Problem solved.
Except that Little One
was not to be defeated, either.
Getting no response
to a muffled mew,
she put her prize down,
held it in place with a paw
(in case it might still be inclined to run off),
and mewed for the door to be opened,
her voice clear, sweet,
innocent of prey.
Mother would open the door,
and Little One would grab her dinner
and bolt for the basement.
“Oh, that cat!”
Mother would cry,
stamping
her
foot.
I always smiled,
exquisitely proud.
