Sense of Direction

The “kit-ten” whom I call Raymond sprang from his nap and hurried to the garden gate.  Such interest could only mean he was in search of trouble, so I hopped from my seat to follow. Raymond stopped beneath the tree impatiens to chatter in that frustrated rhythm that cat owners quickly recognize: bird or beast was out of reach.  And there it was flitting among the blossoms–a Townsend’s warbler foraging for tasty creepy crawlies.  The little bird was so intent on swooping and snacking that he took no notice of the beastie who plotted his demise.  Instead, when I spoke, the warbler hopped to the weather vane and allowed me a photo.  Then he watched as I scooped up the furry menace and carried it off in search of kibble and catnip.

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