9 Lives

~

I traipse over the fallow field musing my approaching demise. Unlike others of my kind, I am not afraid of the end. I have redressed to a mutual understanding with Death. He is not an inclement force, as many believe, nor is he exhilarating in any frame of mind. Seeing as he does not harass me I am no longer pressured to liquidate my life and pure essence to him before I am properly prepared.

Suddenly my nose detects the products of an unknown human's culinary interests; and I turn my attention away from my stray thoughts. Only one thing lingers in my mind as I am instinctively coerced to detour towards the scrumptious scent. The source of the smell turns out to be a freshly tipped row of trash cans who, I happen to know, belong to an urbane neighborhood that only eats the best quality foods (and often throws out much). I figure my little sojourn will be a negligible distraction from my present journey and thank my nose, a wonderful artifice if I do say so myself, as I dig into a juicy turkey carcass.

Before long a low growl interrupts my feast so I look up into the punitive glare of a large stray hound. My new adversary may be three- times my size, however being a stray myself, I have learned enough to not allow myself to be alienated by rivals. I do not live up to my nickname "Scaredy Cat" and I never will because I am no craven. Hopefully my indifferent response will set a precedent for this dog that violence can sometimes be avoided in situations like ours. Unfortunately I am wrong.

In my old age I have become a very tired, and ragged cat, meaning I am in no shape for a fight. I sigh, I would prefer to go out in a more peaceful way but it doesn't appear that it will turn out so. The hound's snarl gets louder as he gets closer and I see his teeth reflecting the sun, the glare temporarily blinding me. I now feel his dank breath on my whiskers and I brace for impact.

I collapse in a small, damp, patch of grass and let out a soft yowl of pain. Everything hurts and rather then the turkey I was eating, I can now only taste the salty tang of my own blood. I can not hold up my wounded head any longer and I lay helpless as my breathing gets gradually more difficult. My eyelids droop until I suck in a sharp breath and my eyes close perpetually.

~

A pair of bright green eyes flutter open and a tiny gray kitten sits up. He takes in the world around him and his eyes sparkle with delight. Satisfied, he nuzzles into his mother's soft fur and goes back to sleep. He has a dream that informs him that all cats have nine lives, and this is his ninth.

THE END

~ This story is dedicated to my wonderful cat Frost who disappeared a number of years ago~