Chase, eat, wait

I am a mouser, a farm cat that dedicates hours to watching a pin pointed hole, described to me by a fellow cat as the home of my truest desire.  I wait incessantly and deny no moment of staring in order to look around.  The purity of my attention is both awe-striking and pathetic, for the fact that there may be a better way to live never crosses my mind.  

Dozens of us cats live here. Staring at the holes in our respective hunting grounds, and waiting to hear a scratch, a knock, the tittering of small paws.  Rarely, but frequently enough, a rat sprints out of one of the holes.  A lucky cat snatches this disgusting, thin, and sickly rodent in its jowls.  A shake of intense excitement snaps its neck.  The rest of us hungry felines stare on in envy.  At certain times, depending greatly upon the cat who now holds the morsel in its mouth, a fellow will attack.  

These cats were once friends; equals, co-habitors, possibly lovers.  They were enemies only of the cruel owners who kept them on this land.  Success is a nasty drug.  Comfort, in an uncomfortable existence, no matter how minuscule, will change a being deeply.  We accept this, the woes of a painful life, in hopes to give that death shake ourselves.  

Outside this dark barn is a vast open area.  I have not looked past the weeds and high grass many times. I will stalk through them lightly, in order to hide a scrap of dead animal.  The rotten stench carries easily, and friends arrive quickly to help me dispose of whatever I have not already finished.  A house stands off from the barn.  Green frames and white shutters shut the men and women inside.  A waft of maddeningly fragrant meats strays out of the shutters some days.  I dare not go near though.  Too close a sneak has only earned me a hard kick, popping ribs and forcing all air from my body.  

The cats of this farm are a busy bunch; fighting, crying, fucking, and hunting for the treasure of rats. We serve very little purpose anymore.  The three or four cats that originally held office here have all died.  What was plentiful nourishment for them is nowhere near sufficient anymore.  Their bloodline has been swapped, grown, and has reached a disturbing height.  I have no idea how many cats live here.  In honesty, I barely notice the other's existence unless they have food.   The amount of rats holds no deed in our succession. We breed because it is a cause for hope, not because our kittens will live beautiful lives.  

The food is so scarce that we writhe in greed.  We deny others the smallest aid, because we need more than they need.  Skin sucked tight to ribs, like plastic wrap over vegetables, is common sight. Sores initiated by fights grow uncontrolled; purple skin swells and leaks pus, and rotted corpses fall far off in the weeds.

The farm owner, an old woman, doesn’t care enough to stop our breeding, nor does she care about our livelihood in the slightest.  As long as we stay quiet at night she will allow us to live.  And down the chain of life it goes.  The rats hold a terrible struggle.  But as long as they are willing to risk death for their version of food, we will continue to disembowel them for our own.

The original cats arrived at this barn in a search for food, and found the offerings un-passable.  A quick survey left one dead, from sneaking into the house. Since then we established our domain in the barn, chasing our pathetic pieces of food, gorging when we could and leaving our fellows to starve. Whether genetic disposition or community education, we know to eat all we can when we can, and leave the rest to their own.

The concept of freedom is lost in our struggle to live. How am I free when every day I must do the same three actions to survive?  I push my nose into burnt trash, hoping to pull undigested bone marrow from the farmer’s dinner.  I attack my fellows; my only companions.  If I do not kill them by stealing their food, I will starve.  I live my solitude cruelly, simply.  Chase, eat, wait; Chase, eat, wait.  

This is the crisis of my every day, and I will do everything I can to continue.  Morbid manipulation of my physical limits allows me to progress.  A masterful calculation of spent calories and ability to kill is my power.  Maybe tomorrow I will save enough energy to leave, to move up, to hunt something more substantial.  Until then it will be the same

Chase, eat, wait; Chase, eat, wait.