I Keep Looking

I keep looking, trying to see exactly where the teeth go in. It’s somewhere around the spine but not exactly in the middle. You can tell because the little furry body hangs lop-sided out of the cat’s mouth, more weight toward the tail end.

The question of where on the chipmunk’s spine Floyd clamps down has come to mind because of how his victims move when he releases them. It is always the same; a series of small awkward arcing hops. Are their spines broken? I don’t think so, at least not until he’s ready to kill them, else how could they hop at all? Maybe sprained, I think, bruised, fluids rushing to the area, pain, adrenalin, heart pounding, then miraculous release and another tiny shot at freedom, while the cat lies in the grass, careless, almost bored, letting the chipmunk arc again in broken little hops toward cover. Don’t tell me animals only kill to eat.

This chipmunk made it to a large flower pot on wheels and crawled into the space underneath. Floyd, alert now, crouches, embracing the area beneath it, batting with his right paw, then left and right, swift as a boxer working out, until he’s rousted the critter and caught it again.

I see this chipmunk’s eye scanning for options even as he is carried again to the center of the yard for possible execution. Another stay, another desperate break for cover, flattening under grass borders, resting a second or two behind a car tire and then, against all odds, the wood pile and safety.

I may find him there in a couple of days, dead of heart failure or injuries. He may crawl off to his borough and die there. But maybe not. Maybe he’ll live and produce legions of cat-defying offspring.

There is a reign of terror on my front porch that leaves body parts daily. I’ve learned to live with it. I no longer intervene. Watch a cat eat a fresh kill. His pupils are dilated to the outer edge of his irises in pleasure and receptivity. The high, like a heroin fix, like someone who’s been starving. But I feed my cats every morning. They are far from starved.

Once in awhile they leave a gift for me, the alpha cat, who loves them and loves the creatures they kill and who is looking for the bright shining heart at the center of things in this life. I can almost see that edge. But it is not in the pain, or pleasure. It is not in the fact that reality is layered or deep. I do not know if the love is anywhere, except in me. I don't even really know that.