Nothing Personal

That cat again, that sinister

hunting fury, biding time,

awaiting the unwary presence

of another bird, hatchlings if at

all possible, a tiny furred rabbit,

chipmunks, whatever crosses its

path to perdition.  The pathetic

remains of mice and moles to be

cleared away, given burial 

after its predations.  Squatting

there, awaiting its purpose in life,

so infuriating the man that he

dashed from his front door like

a frenzied windmill, arms akimbo

shouting imprecations at the

feline languorously moving off

just as after-dinner strollers

passed by his garden hearing the

hisses and the damn-yous, the

invitation to vamoose before a

neck-wringing occured, shaking 

their heads, moving on with

alacrity, as another urban legend

of a house of crazies is born.