The matted old cat has cancer. Four years past his fighting form there is less drama. At 17 he sleeps a lot, shits and pisses where he wants and smells a little like a teenager’s room. He no longer has the teeth for mousing. His defective thyroid used to make him a highly motivated killer and now he just mewls like a baby for more geriatric formula spooned from a can. He’s no longer packing heat. Mice and rats, emboldened by his soporific state, poke around the fringes of the yard and only care slightly that anyone is watching. The sun is shining and it is compost season. Plenty to eat and what to fear? Eagles and owls circle the sky miles away and coyotes stay out of the fenced in yard. The dog is a joke. The squirrels unwittingly run interference and the dog’s obsession with them ensures she remains oblivious to their increasing numbers. They breed like a clich
