The ninja cat named Tilly was a tabby cat of roughly twenty pounds of muscle, claws, teeth, and attitude. Not to mention fluff. Her eyes widened and her fingers and toes stretched out, unsheathing the daggers that were kept behind velvet kitten-beans. The rough branch came up to meet her as she scrambled across the branch and launched herself into the air once again. She didn't need the damn worm pill, she didn't want the damn worm pill. She was going to stay like this forever, wild and free. The humans didn't need worm pills, they only needed pills for headaches, for the little bumps and bruises and when they were seriously ill. She could tell she wasn't infected by worms, so why should she have the treatment.
Her eyes picked out a bird, fourteen meters to her left, a small blue 'Old-world Flycatcher' as the humans called it. She called it lunch. Flattening herself against the branch she remained focused and still, silent as the wind touseled her fur and reminded her to pin her ears to her head, her eyes widening and her whiskers forward, catching each flitting movement from the bird. It bent its head down to peck at the branch twice before looking back up, looking for predators, looking for them in all the wrong places.
The bird went back to attacking the branch, looking for the worm that both the bird and Tilly knew was in it. Tilly moved swiftly, a blur among the branches, a whisper in the wind, a flurry of fur feathers and fangs and the bird was in her jaws, neck broken, wings limp, and Tilly looked triumphant. The warm blood of the small bird filled her mouth, flooded her nose with its lovely metallic scent, the soft small down feathers tickled her gums. No one was better than her at her job, killing messenger birds from other villages. She had to keep sharp, had to know the ins and outs of hunting, tracking, and killing birds. She yowled loudly, scaring all the other birds out of the tree she was in and set down to plucking the feathers out and eating the tender meat of the meal.
Itadakimasu.
Her eyes picked out a bird, fourteen meters to her left, a small blue 'Old-world Flycatcher' as the humans called it. She called it lunch. Flattening herself against the branch she remained focused and still, silent as the wind touseled her fur and reminded her to pin her ears to her head, her eyes widening and her whiskers forward, catching each flitting movement from the bird. It bent its head down to peck at the branch twice before looking back up, looking for predators, looking for them in all the wrong places.
The bird went back to attacking the branch, looking for the worm that both the bird and Tilly knew was in it. Tilly moved swiftly, a blur among the branches, a whisper in the wind, a flurry of fur feathers and fangs and the bird was in her jaws, neck broken, wings limp, and Tilly looked triumphant. The warm blood of the small bird filled her mouth, flooded her nose with its lovely metallic scent, the soft small down feathers tickled her gums. No one was better than her at her job, killing messenger birds from other villages. She had to keep sharp, had to know the ins and outs of hunting, tracking, and killing birds. She yowled loudly, scaring all the other birds out of the tree she was in and set down to plucking the feathers out and eating the tender meat of the meal.
Itadakimasu.
