A cat screamed it’s tiny tongue out all over my porch. I heard it. I heard it being attacked by a local living coyote. As their fight progressed, the kitty was flung from the garden — a weak excuse of a garden — onto the gate entry way.
I wasn’t sure what to do. “What should I do?” I thought. I might knock on the window, distract the mean coyote, detail the glass like a robber, yell, get off the bed and foot to the door for a better peek, make some coffee and watch, wake up hubzo and tell him about it, or wait for the fight to break and hope the kitty lives.
I decided to listen and ignore. This is nature and I live in Colorado where the wildlife reside in your yard holes and trees. I fell back to sleep and forgot.
But then I woke up. Coffee called my name and I traveled to the kitchen for my big red cup. Ginger was sleep dozing and it was time to act, get the caffeine pumping and take a few minutes for myself.
In the kitchen I remembered. Had the kitty lived? The growls and deep screams had been long and frightening. What if the kitty is dead on my front deck?
I peered out the kitchen window. The sun was rising, beautiful trees full of birds eating flowers and shit from my garden… nothing amiss there. I scanned closer, to make sure no dead kitty carcass lay in the yard.
Nothing. No dead cat to be seen. Only a little concrete mushroom man waving hello from the tulips. Coyote is long gone. Kitty is, too, surely alive somewhere napping on the seemingly warm grass.
I must be mistaken. I have wild ideas for their argument. It wasn’t just an attempt at dinner. Things could have gotten out of control during some early morning Cinco de Mayo partying. Always happens when one drinks too much. That must be it.
For all is calm on the deck this morning.
