White Lightning

Stupid cats. They're so slinky and curious and stubborn all the time. Darting out of door cracks and into yards, sniffing all the moving bushes and almost-big-enough fence slats-slash-escape routes, increasing my heart palpitations and provoking above my breath cursing. Apparently, cat treats are only enticing within the confines of suburbia. But in the wild? Oh no, my friend. They don't smell better than grass or chipmunk trails or trampolines. Cats don't climb into bags so you can carry them back inside, and they don't hop into your arms when you whistle. Cats do, however, decide that the smell of a strange, smoky man completes their adventure. They waltz back through the screen door and under the table. I then close doors that confine them to three rooms, one of which houses their food, water, and litter box. I leave harried, hairied, and mosquito bitten. Stupid cats.