Memoirs of a Feral Cat

9 Chapter Two The Two-Legger Experience Never trust a two-legger. Not the young, the old, the tall or the short. The felines who rely on these creatures have lost all respect for their felinenity. My fur bristles thinking about members of our proud race who not only get fed, groomed, and locked in a house all day, but also yearn for the strokes, scratches, and coos of these two-legged beasts. How do I know all this? It makes me cringe to admit that I experienced it first-paw. I can honestly say I am a proud feral feline molly who doesn’t want to be referred to as a Sheba, chase after fake mice, or be picked up and carried about like a newborn kitten. Worst of all, I don’t need to be pricked, cut open and put back together. I am not one of their playthings. The day started innocently enough. The sun warmed, the light breeze tickled, and the smells from wood and grass beguiled as I strolled along one of the quieter streets. I had the place to myself, or so I thought, when a big, fat, scrumptious squirrel zipped along a fence. Dinner ! I stalked it to a wonderland filled with flowers blooming in a dazzling array of color. Trees, heavy with fruit, lined up against the fence. My dinner leaped to a branch, pulled off an apple half its size, and bit off several huge chunks without chewing or swallowing. No wonder squirrels looked nice and plump. Cramming its mouth until its cheeks swelled to twice their size had me salivating. I couldn’t wait to have its tubby little body fill my cheeks to twice their size. I jumped into action while the squirrel concentrated on the red fruit. Relying on its loud munching to muffle sounds, I creeped along the top of the fence and latched onto the tree as mute and light as a butterfly.