One of my cats was a dark blur, leaping to the back of the daybed-turned-couch and startling me away from a pretend world in the television. There was a moth in the house, flying erratically from light to blinds through the chilly room. Her eyes wide and wanting, the cat chirped and scrambled for purchase on the hardwood floor, desperate to make contact with the small, soft-winged mystery. Sharp teeth closed on the grey body; it fluttered briefly before coming to a final rest.
Puzzled, she gently batted it with a clawed forepaw. Nothing. Chirping, not with the chirp of the hunt but with confusion, she nudged it with her nose. No response. By now, the other cat was aware of the situation and came to investigate. Still nothing. A few chirps later, a few more fruitless battings, and the dead creature was devoured.
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