- Jun 9, 2022
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╰☆☆ There's only so many mice one cat can catch while lazing about the same four walls of the horse nest. Weasel can't say he doesn't like the abundance of prey that seek shelter and hayseeds within, but sometimes he has to admit he feels himself going stir crazy.
One of the other toms who lives near the barn--calls himself 'Big Guy,' though Weasel thinks his real name is Brick--is always coming and going. The brown tabby has never thought to ask where it is he's headed, exactly, and why he returns scenting of other cats... but he has his suspicions. His mother had met a stray who'd stopped by just the other day, and they'd told them an interesting, if not mousebrained, tale.
Groups of cats living in the forests beyond. Cats who are battle-hungry, who feed off of the fat of the land, protected from Twolegs. The idea is intriguing, though Weasel isn't sure how much he'd like living in a forest. Maybe I'll go find out today, he thinks, and just like that, he finds himself under the dark canopy of pines.
Weasel immediately hates how squishy the ground is, how dank the air tastes. The mud is slimy. He can't scent mice at all; all he can taste on the air is... frogs and stale cat scent, and he finds it repulsive. He starts thinking he'd rather live with Twolegs and wear one of those stupid collars than suffer in the closed-in darkness of the swamps.
"You'd have to be a fool to live here," he mutters to himself. He tilts his head up toward where he should see the blue expanse of the sky. But there are only glimpses of sun and cloud from where he stands. "What a dump."
—PENNED BY MARQUETTE.
@SOOTSTRIDE