The Cat

I love my cat. I am angry with my cat. i have to admit it is her nature to be predatory. But accepting the results is very hard.

In the last week, I've rescued two birds from her teeth: the first a small wren that she carried into the livingroom between her jaws. I managed to save it, watch it fly free from the comb of my hands. A day later, she brought a grey catbird onto the front porch, its neck turned at a precarious angle. I released it from her still soft, not yet clamp of death grip, and it flew away. When I came home yesterday, I found a dead blue jay on my front walk. I don't know what to do about her. She's got a huge bell around her neck which complements a smaller one. It must give her an earache jangling with her movement. But she's smart. Her nature prevails. And I cannot bring myself to bag the blue jay. I cannot stop loving my cat, who stares right into my eyes with her sea green eyes, who sits on the arm of my chair as I write, who buries her face in the crook of my arm, who follows me room to room, who runs to greet me, then rolls over for a belly rub. This is tough loving.