Killer Kitten

Cautiously scanning for any sign of the killer kitten, the old tabby slowly slinks through the bedroom and onto the loveseat in the sunroom. She settles in behind the cushions, still wary but not outright fearful, and after a minute or two of watchfulness, closes her eyes and goes to sleep, peacefully wound around the tiniest dog's warm body. Seconds later, there is a maniacal yowl followed by a vicious hiss, a yelp, and the thunder of little cat feet in flight. The killer kitten has struck again.

The tabby streaks for the kitchen with the kitten hot on her heels and I deposit the terrified tiny one on the bed and then follow, snatching my trusty fly swatter off the door handle as I pass. There's no sign of either cat in the kitchen but I can hear growling and when I follow the sound, I discover the tabby backed into a corner by the bookcase, back arched, hackles raised and outraged. The kitten is calmly watching her from a few feet away, looking as innocent as new fallen snow but betraying herself with her whiplash tail switching. She spies the fly swatter and makes a hasty retreat, just a small gray, guilty blur passing me with lightning speed and a loud, defiant meow.

The tabby recovers quickly and finds safe haven in a basket atop the refrigerator. The kitten, mean as a snake at times but not stupid, is nowhere to be found. I discover the tiny one, still trembling, hiding between the little dachshund and a nest of bed pillows. He anxiously climbs into my arms and burrows under my chin for rescue and reassurance.

To be fair, I remind myself, this is not always the way it is. She reserves her sweet side for the dogs, particularly the little dachshund, and I often find them sleeping together or grooming each other. She and the tiny one can be absolutely playful at times, mixing it up on and around the furniture until one is knocked off or they wear each other out. He yaps, she chirps, nobody is terrorized. The mean and mayhem side of her personality is aimed only at the other cats.

“You should've come with a warning label,” I tell her when she reappears, jumping into my lap and making herself comfortable.

Her only answer is a contented purr.

And though she but little, she is fierce ~ Shakespeare