I knew I had fallen asleep when I woke up, but not much else; everything was a blur, the clouds were a blur, in the sky directly above me, blue and anticipating, the clouds were like cuttlefish, like dead cuttlefish, dehydrated and wired to the inside of a parakeet's cage.The cat looks through the window from the four-by-four separating this side of the yard from that side of the yard, a little skirt of redwood around him, on either side. He can see the big wire cage hanging over the dining room bar, high but not so high as to prevent a clever cat from getting to it. He can't quite tell if the wide wire bars are wide enough to allow a quick swipe of his paw. He knows that if he can swipe at the bird, all enclosed and thwarted from free movement, he can finish it off at the wires and pull it through piece by piece, if necessary.
There is a hole in the door, for the entry of creatures smaller than people. That is where the cat supposes he will be able to make his entrance into the house. The bar is right there inside the door; it's a quick hop up to the cage, to the tasty blue and yellow snack of feathers, meat, and bones.
Right now as he watches through the window, the bird nervously sharpens its beak on the cuttlefish hanging on the wire like some kind of trophy, as if the bird actually went out a'fishin' and caught a cuttlefish and had it dried and brought it back to the cage for display. As if. The cat knows better than this!
The other thing the cat knows is that there is a dog that comes in and out of that door in the door. A big dog, its sides both touch both sides of the door when he comes or goes. It's a fat old dog but it's not as slow as it looks. The cat knows this because he has hidden and seen the dog running in the back yard chasing balls, practicing to catch the likes of him, a cat. The dog shakes the ball in its mouth, back and forth. If the ball had legs they would be flailing about; if the ball had fur it would be punctured in the dog's mouth and bits of it along with blood and guts would be slinging about. That's what that dog is about, the cat knows this.
And so he tries to devise a plan for getting into the house and onto the bar under the cage without the old dog catching him, without the fat old dog even hearing him.
He wakes up and realizes he has been asleep, asleep on the fence, watching the window, inside of which there is no bird cage, no bird, not even a dog. There on the kitchen floor a big furry cat sits bathing himself, washing his front paws then washing his face, washing the long mottled hairs that grow on his back, his bushy tail. Licking like he's just had a snack, a snack given him by the cat owner who lives there, who goes away and leaves bowls of food and water out then comes home again after being gone for a long while and puts more food out, and pets the cat, runs a hand from his nose to his tail, tip to tip. The cat on the fence can't hear it but he knows the cat in the house is purring, is content, happy, a full belly, a loving hand.
The cat thinks he would rather not have such luxuries. He prefers the freedom of the outdoors, chasing, hunting, sleeping when he wants to. He moves to a fresh stretch of fence, a cool piece of redwood with slats on both sides. He is a wild cat, wiry and small, and he can lie flat and not be detected by anyone or any thing and he likes it like this.
He falls asleep and dreams he is on a couch, in a house, he sees a lap and he goes to it, stretches out on it, a hand caresses his bony back, his spine arches toward the human hand. Across the room a bowl of food sits waiting, partially eaten, otherwise untouched. He considers it awhile but knows it will be there later, and so he falls asleep as the caressing hand slowly halts its motion, or maybe not, the cat is asleep, dreaming he is a wild cat in a wild jungle, hunting a helpless prey, a wild bird, something big and colorful, feathers, meat, and bones.
