Seduction

The cat is black with a rich dark coat and eyes the color of moss in autumn. He steps softly on the pathway and jumps gracefully onto the porch, where he surveys the garden with a smooth turn of his head.

He's looking for prey.  Cats are enemies to the wildlife in my garden, killing for pleasure.  I shoo the  cat away, but instead of heading out for the neighbors yard, he runs to the center of my garden and hides in a thicket of shrubs. 


He wears a collar and has a shiny red name tag in the shape of a heart.  "Pickles," it says.


"Lucifer" would be more appropriate.

Yet when I go out to the garden, the cat runs to me, like we are old friends.  He follows me and rubs against my legs, crying in a tiny voice.  He flops on the pavement at my feet, begging me to pet him.  Sometimes he climbs onto my lap, relishing the feel of my hand on his fur. 


Some cats are too tame to kill.  At least, that is what their owners say. 


When I drove home from work, I saw a black shape on the side of the driveway, staring at something under the Abelia.  He startled when he saw the car.  When I stepped out, he ran to the center of the garden and watched me cross the threshold into the house and close the door.

The next day, he was back, sitting quietly under the impatiens, watching a yellow butterfly.  Soon after, I noticed the flowers, stems broken, dangling over the pot.


Later I saw him crouched down with something between his paws.   It was a tiger swallowtail butterfly.  He ate the body first, then chewed on the wings.  When he was finished, there were only shards of the hind wings on the pavement.

Then he went back into the shrubbery to wait.