The dusty wooden floors remained unpolished. They were well worn by sandaled feet, glistening – just barely – in the milky morning sun. The scent of blooming lavender spilled in from the vast fields outside the open windows. The small stone house rested peacefully in a sea of new green and pale purple.

The cat wandered in from a night of gallivanting ready to take her daily leave. She slunk to a sunny spot on the soft floor and melted in. Head tucked into her belly, she became a part of the house, a grease stain on the ground.

She hadn’t gone out with the intent to catch anything. She wanted to look at the shimmy of the grass, guess which way the wind would blow. The night was balmy and clear, with no hint of rain anywhere on the long horizon, just a clean breeze ruffling the cat’s tawny fur. The cat was enthralled with the natural way of things. She knew nothing of why bugs could fly and she couldn’t, why the lavender blossoms only showed their faces at this time of year. Why would they hide for so long? She crouched in bushes, tucked away while she watched and learned.

As night fell, her benign curiosity gave way to a familiar feeling. Every shift of a branch or wiggle of a leaf tensed her back legs, pricked her ears, let her sharpened claws out of their pockets. The crust of age chipped off her joints. She was smooth and charged and warm.

An unfortunate field mouse darted through the stalks of grass. She didn’t see the little gray mouse; she felt it move and heard it breathe. Instinct guided her as she crept toward the mouse, stepping in between blades of tall grass, careful to veil her presence with stillness. Her heart beat no faster than if she were sleeping, her breath did not flow. The mouse was a relatively large one – it was the end of spring, the babies were all nearly adults by now. The mouse held a cricket in its pink paws, still twitching with the last pulses of life.

The mouse stood on his haunches, proud of himself for finding such a good dinner. He hadn’t had much luck lately, and the malnutrition was wearing on him further. His brain was not as sharp as it had been when he was young and jovial, filled to the brim with spring. Now, it was summer, and fall was approaching. He needed to fatten up for winter, when the only sustenance would be snow and sleep. He may even have to creep into the house, where the woman left crumbs for him and the cat licked her paws. This catch would sustain him for some time; he knew he would sleep full and comfortable in his burrow tonight.

The cat watched as the mouse enjoyed his last meal. She didn’t like dealing with insects who couldn’t fly; she saw no purpose in them. She hated crickets, leggy things with no wings. Their lack of levitation was inexcusable, as was their false, jumping flight. So she let the mouse stand on his hind legs and suck the innards out of the bug. She watched in disgust as he munched the crunching legs, turning the thing in his paws as he went. She didn’t dare look away, lest her movement warn him of her existence.

The cat‘s plan was executed with expert aim and perfect timing. Just as the last remnants of the cricket disappeared in her prey’s mouth, she pushed her weight into her back legs, inhaled, and leaped forward. She let out no yips or yowls, sailing silently over the stems and buds of the field, dropping straight on her target with limbs outstretched and claws curling out. In an instant, the mouse was a memory, convulsing in her muzzle. Sharp teeth clamped on musty fur, and the fight evacuated the little body.

Satisfied by her good performance, the cat sank comfortably down into the plush field, relaxing to eat her catch. She relished in the speed of her heart (she now allowed it to race) and the awareness of her flesh. Every inch of her body was exactly how it should be; within the reach of her consciousness.

She delicately devoured the fruits of her labor. She felt no need to bring it back to her woman or to move to a private place. The field was hers, she knew it, she owned it. No other cats dared to infringe upon her sovereignty. The woman was an afterthought. The cat accepted her, but she was here before the woman and would remain here long after. The woman seemed to know that. This mouse was hers and hers alone.

Lollygagging back to the house in the early morning light, the cat was happy. She meandered into the stone house before the woman awoke and snuggled into a sunspot. She left the scraps of her mouse in the field to fertilize some future flower and cleaned any trace of death off of her golden coat.

The cat let the sounds of morning lull her into a deep, dreamless sleep. No thoughts of her evening passed between her ears.