Timbits skulked lithely to the opposite side of the ridge, like waterbeads dancing on a riverstone. His face wore discontent well; in their final seconds, his prey often appeared contrite, as if they were more concerned with not disappointing him than with self-preservation. The dour mountain lion swished his thick tail in irritation and glanced again towards the log cabin where the furless apes were feasting.
This morning, the apes had chattered excitedly about a box, and Timbits knew their song, if not the lyrics. Being a cat, he fancied himself a natural philosopher on the subject of boxes. Before he could bound towards their treasure and seize it for himself, though, the apes slid a smaller metal box out of the lengthy cardboard one and, using their primitive tools that served as a poor imitation of claws, collapsed
Timbits’s prize into a formless brown mass. He growled at the memory.
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