…before the shite begins to hit the fan non-stop.
“There’s a black furred bird eater in the tree,” the news bird sang. “Right over there. Bird eater in the tree! Black fur! Be warned! Be warned! And ground monkeys inside and outside their box cave!” It looked down at Wellington, cocked its head to the side as it realized that, perhaps, it was delivering news to the enemy, and with a flick and flutter it shot into the sky.
Wellington had mixed feelings about the way he involuntarily salivated whenever in the immediate proximity of birds.
Continuing his short trek up the side of the hill, he stooped down and picked up a small severed pine branch with thick green needles intact and used it as a broom, sweeping splintered wood and other fragments off the surface of Mother Maggie’s front porch. Damn Sasquatch could be so messy at times. Couldn’t it have simply knocked on the door? Why so dramatic, pounding on the side of the cabin with a log?
Porch swept — or at least a section of it — Wellington curled up in a nice patch of sunlight, eschewing the ancient and crudely made adirondack chairs, and closed his eyes. The early morning trek had him completely worn out, and his tummy was full. The urge to sleep felt like a physical pressure, and to fight it made him feel ill.
Most of the time, if he had to choose what he was — human, or cat — he would choose human. The opposable thumb was the most under appreciated possession that humans had. Totally taken for granted.
But at times like this, when the temperature was just right, and the breeze was huffing through the pine needles like the Earth itself was breathing, and the sun came down in gentle waves of life-giving warmth, there was nothing more pleasant than curling up like a cat and taking a nap on a nice flat surface.