kagablog

The little mouse that could.

Pork, though innocent to this (as he was to much all of the presences and relations that defined and moved his feline reality), had only three legs. This had a, well, concentrating effect on his hunting. Brought it into simpler focus. Mice and birds existed only in sound and smell for Pork, and they were only very vaguely connected to Peach’s toys and surgically deft remnants; which Pork always inspected sniffily. No; to Pork was granted the flitter of fainter wings, the lepidopteral world which to Pork appeared (delightfully and exasperatingly, poor thing) as optical smells. And in Pork’s map of archetypes, mice had six legs (then five, then three..), and no tails at all. But, as with his fondest hobby, hunting was for Pork essentially explorative; curiosity that only sometimes (through a pang of deeper instinct) resulted in ingestion. Blink blink. Now where’d it go?

Excepting the dark, aggressive auras of other cats and territory, Pork’s world was all play – its sun of origin – that deep-furred, very First Purr – was purely aesthetic. And the secret key to the rhythm and nature of Pork’s universe, was his full name; an onomatopoeic phrase which contained descriptively both the rhythm of Pork’s gait, and the general gaiety of his nature. Pork E Pie.

Por-ki-Pie Por-ki-Pie. See Pork hobble, see Pork crouch, see Pork sniff.

Pork was currently curled up soft and tight in his Slow One’s cupboard, on said’s tastiest, furriest jersey (it was drizzling out). And there, outside, far from Pork’s dragon-foetile nap, Peach was elegantly poised; a frozen beauty.

Swish. Pounce.

Poor little mouse. Its world had suddenly become a black-and-white streak; that familiar, silent explosion (it had long haunted its genetic dreams; drawing irrevocably nearer to visceral revelation). The poor, shivering mouse had known not to venture out into this drizzle, this day. But what could it do.. she was calling. What followed was a long, slow, devastating blur. If the poor little mouse’s palpitating nervous-system could distinguish tactile sensation from the general, metaphysic roar, it would have been surprised at the calm, the gentleness with which the great maw cradled it. Peach struts slowly into the lounge, looks calmly about, ears pricked. She was looking for her Slow One. Showing off lent considerable polish to her hunts. Peach walked slowly through the lounge; considered the stairs; checked the kitchen. Oh well.

She delicately placed the vibrating wreck in the middle of the lounge. Sat back. Cleaned her paws while the little mouse gathered itself. Lick, lick. Peach was a cruel beauty. She put her right paw back down. Considered the mouse with philosophical clarity. Then, in concentrated silence, Peach moved toward the poor thing. By now the mouse could see again, the blur was clearing; epically, cruelly replaced by Peach’s calm approaching face. The game was about to begin.

Pork yawned, stirring from placid depths. Uncoiled himself. Lazily shook his head.

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