The Hunters The two forms of calico colored death spring from the porch.

They immerse themselves in shadows cast by the house. Eyes and ears and noses adjust to their domain, rippling out across the yard, taking in their nightly survey. Prey stirs, crawls, scatters, and nibbles. All oblivious to the doom that is coming. Two bits of shadow drip from the larger pool and cautiously flow across the yard, low to the grass. As if it were perfectly natural for the dark to do such things. In utter silence the spots merge with the large shadows of the tree line. There they flow among the umbrage of branches and bushes. Then pause. They wait with the patience of ages. As if the dark is so tentative. Finally, a mouse crashes through the foliage. It spies a safe place across an open patch of moon light between the base of a choke cherry tree and a fallen branch. The mouse scurries toward the dark harbor. The two black spots wait for the mouse to get halfway. Then the dark solidifies and pounces, swirling around the rodent. The mouse finds that these shadows teem with fangs and claws. A squeal swells from the black, causing the remaining prey to scurry in all directions, only delaying their deaths. Back between the tree and the branch, the shadows continue to pool around the victim. Blood drips onto the foliage like ink. But not too much. The teeth and claws only prod and puncture. They didn't kill. The mouse, still oozing, tries to crawl off. From somewhere in the black, claws lash out. The mouse scampers in the other direction. From somewhere else in the night, another set of claws strike. With its back legs in shreds, the vermin squirms forward looking for escape. But torture is all around. And it will not let the rodent die, yet. As if the dark has a thirst for such cruel sport. The mouse ceases moving. The shadows ebb into the surrounding shade, leaving the rodent bathed in the moon light, still halfway between the choke cherry tree and the branch. The mouse's instinct to survive is draining. But the shadows instinct to hunt, despite no hunger, is rising. Unfortunately for the mouse, their instinct for play is overflowing. Suddenly one shadow gushes from the rest, clenching the mouse in its jaws and tossing it into the air. The other shadow waits for the rodent to land. A claw rakes the mouse's belly. Its guts spill. The claw recedes. Another claw from the opposite direction hooks an intestine. The claw pulls. The first claw rushes forth again, snaring a pupil. The shadows tug in opposite directions. In this way, death is finally decided. As if the dark could be so merciless. Once the mouse is cold and still, the two shapes liquefy and flow, with their bellies rubbing the dewy grass, beneath the underbrush, looking for further game.

Sometime after five am, the two shadows recede to the porch. The sun is rising, evaporating their cover.

I am wakened by sounds of scraping from the kitchen. Moments later two heavy, damp forms converge on the bed. One is under the blanket, rippling toward my head where it curls and rests in the crook of my neck. The other swirls and sinks between my ankles. Instantly, they begin cleansing themselves of the evening smells and dew. Then they begin kneading my flesh and the bedding, content. Their deep purring reverberates through the whole bed. Their nightly trophies are likely strewn across the porch. Last week alone, I found several mice, a baby rabbit, two swallows, a family of moles, and numerous gophers. This morning, I hope they are all dead. In June, I had to chase a sparrow around the porch with a shoe. Both wings were missing. I marvel at their skills. Nestled lovingly at my neck and feet are several thousand years of instinct honed to stalk and kill. That instinct cannot be domesticated so easily, like the flesh and brain. Their need to hunt and murder and torture has not been tamed. Evening arrives, and though they are full, their instinct swells. Fifteen hundred years before Christ was born, the Egyptians worshipped felines. They offered them sacrifices. They even mummified them. Before they ultimately tamed them, the Egyptians created the goddess Sekhmet. She was a bloodthirsty creature with the head of a lion, and they feared her. However, over time, as felines were domesticated, and eventually rid the Egyptians of the pestilence their rodents brought, they created the goddess Bashet. She was a guardian with the head of a cat, and they cherished her. Together these two goddesses represented the two contrasting faces of the sun. Thirty five hundred years later, uur sun is shining through the window, hitting my eyes. No use sleeping. Time to rise. Their depleted dishes will need to be filled. I wonder sometimes, who precisely is the pet? The purring at my head and feet, and the fluttering coming from the porch, remind me that Bashet and Sekhmet still reside somewhere within the feline genetic structure. I ease myself out from under their weight. Their sacrifices await.