Jenny belongs to a retired couple who reside a few houses up the street. Because she hates car rides and I currently “work” from home, whenever her owners take a day trip or go on vacation, they just drop her off at my house. And so Jenny and I have become fast friends over the years.
Although of amiable disposition most of the time, Jenny has zero tolerance for cats. Any feline espied will be chased mercilessly to the end of the world and beyond if necessary.
Yesterday, Jenny and I once again spent the afternoon together. At one point, as we were kicking back in the yard, the neighbor’s cute little gray kitty trespassed on the property, as it often does. The cat must have been about 40 feet away when Jenny caught sight of it. As is her wont, she instantly took off like a nuclear-powered RPG in the direction of the intruder.
Yet in lieu of turning tail and skedaddling back under the chain-link whence it had come, as would have been strategically advisable under the circumstances, the little tiger just stood there, frozen like a deer in the headlights, its back slowly arching while staring with eerie fascination at the canine juggernaut that was speedily approaching.
I’d already started saying a little prayer, figuring that as soon as Jenny pulled abreast of the kitty, it would be all she wrote for the poor thing: There’d be one quick chomp by a powerful set of dog jaws followed by cat blood splattering all over the place and accompanied by a piercing squeal to signify a hapless creature’s violent and untimely annihilation.
Oddly, though, just as Jenny was about to reach the cat and be in a perfect position to deliver the coup de grace, she swung around so as to avoid a collision, slowed to a lope, and trudged off in a different direction, showing no more interest as if thinking, “Well, if the stupid cat just wants to stand there like a potted begonia, let it. The yard is big enough for both of us.”
After all, what’s the fun in hunting and fighting something that doesn’t even run away?