Bobo wouldn’t know what to do with a bird
if he ever caught one. He’d probably play
with it like a chew toy until it stopped
squeaking then leave me to bury the body.
Moriarty has honed instincts for the kill—
a quick sharp shake and the neck snaps
then scalpel claws extract the juicy innards.
But he prefers the rustling of the bush
to a bird in the paw. There could be three
or four meals skittering in the undergrowth—
wren or robin, skink or squirrel.
He will stare at that shrub for hours,
imagining what he’ll do with his winnings—
a Powerball drawing fresh from the garden.
(For today’s prompt, write an anapodoton poem. An anapodoton is an unfinished phrase that a person can fill in the blanks, phrases like “When in Rome,” “If life gives you lemons,” “Speak of the devil,” and “Where there is a will.” For many (if not all) of these, you probably filled in the second half of the phrase, because you know it so well.)
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At one time, I shared my house with a cat called Ali – named after Alexander the Great – she had his attitude to world domination. Ali was a hunter – leaving rats heads and gall-bladders on the doormat for me as offerings. She went blind, but could still kill birds – she did exactly as you describe – crouched by a bush – listening – then – she’d pounce.
She was known in the neighbourhood as The Blind Cat – folk saw her pacing confidently through their gardens, and were amazed.
Ali the Great.
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All Hail Ali the Great! Thanks for sharing her story.