I like to write. Call me a frustrated writer if you will; it doesn't matter. I've long since come to terms with my desire to get published in a book or magazine. I'm completely content and happy with what I'm doing now. I'll throw my stories and scribblings up here for people to take or leave as they like. Hopefully most of them will be of some use to others, or at least enjoyable to just read!
Any comments or questions are welcomed! I've kept a personal diary on some of my activity and experiences while walking the path of a stone shaman but, after recently joining this board, it occurred to me that transferring or transcribing some of those entries into a blog here might prove to be beneficial to other people as well. Aside from that, it doesn't make much sense for me to continue with the diary if I'm going to duplicate it online so I'll start posting my continuing experiences here alone.
Lastly, there are other things I'd like to comment on that just don't go in a diary or even a bbs section. Those issues will wind up here too.
Anyway, some people have requested that I post my short stories. You'll find them in the appropriate/pertaining sections of the bbs but I also thought it would be useful to post them in their entirety here. Most of my existing stories are too long (I feel) to tie up a section post with. As a dear fellow member pointed out quite correctly; people are going to turn off immediately if they see it's an abnormally long posting. Here I can get down everything I want to say in long-form without worrying about that.
So, by way of opening things up, here is the entire text of The Hunter. This story was posted today in 3 parts in the Animals and Pets section:
I’ve never been much of an enthusiast when it comes to cats—probably because we never had them when I was a child. German Shepherds were the companions of my youth—an animal much more adapt at handling the raucous, rollicking, adventuresome nature of a young boy. My interest in cats came years later and then only because they were a package deal—the other half of the deal being girls. Cats were the barometer by which girls judged boys when I was a teenager. Getting anywhere with an adolescent female meant first passing inspection by a snobby, self-centered little lump of lazy, egotistical fur. If her cat liked you then you were in like Flynn; if not, you couldn’t melt the icy, contemptible look in her eyes with a blowtorch let alone a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. Why, just getting the furry little beast to rub up against your pant leg was worth two hundred bonus points. If it purred at you as well it practically guaranteed you a night of amorous carousing—assuming, of course, that you could keep the cat from clawing massive topographical changes into your arms, legs, and back while attempting to neck with its owner on the living room sofa.
It took a while before I finally put two and two together and came up with one. The cat and the cat’s owner were mirrors of each other. Personalities, habits, and traits between the two were almost identical in an alarming number of cases; right down to the claw marks. The boys at school use to brag about their latest conquests; even going so far as to compare wounds. I knew better. Their claims of wildly amorous conquests were in reality dismal attempts with partners as inept in the intricacies of love as they were. It was the cats. With that puzzle solved to my satisfaction I turned my attention elsewhere. Accumulating scars from cat scratches was not my idea of a life-goal; nor did I see any possibility of deriving monetary value from it. Quite the opposite in fact. Doctor bills would have kept me in hock the rest of my life and I was at that age where it was quickly becoming apparent fiscal intake was going to be a key factor in surviving sans parental units. I had also discovered that a ready supply of cash on hand tended to keep me in the good graces of the females of the species even more so than their cat’s affection.
I was in my mid-twenties before I crossed paths with a cat again. I was working the graveyard shift as a security officer at a factory in the tiny Twin City suburb of Lauderdale at the time. The Mississippi River oozed by about a quarter-mile to the South along with the main rail lines that ran through Minneapolis and Saint Paul. Mostly I was there to greet the transients jumping off freight trains and wandering through the plant in search of a place to eat, sleep, or loot. When I ran across one, I sent him where he needed to go; be it a restaurant, hotel, or the County Jail. Transients provided a fair amount of diversion but just patrolling the plant was an experience in itself. It was a huge, archaic place built who knows how many decades ago. Entering one of the buildings was like stepping through a porthole in time into one of those old photographs; yellowed and faded with age. High overhead lights shone dimly through the murk three stories above the floor; their covers and grates coated in decades of dust. Ancient iron girders formed vaulted ceilings over the center aisles with a myriad of smaller support beams giving the entire canopy the appearance of a giant, mutant spider web straight out of a ‘B’ monster movie.
Residual smoke from machines shut down hours before hung in a thin, blue haze throughout the buildings. The outer walls were a hybrid of thick brick and thin metal that had uniformly yellowed and blackened with age. Grime coated everything in layers measuring inches thick. Hundreds of the small, square windows lining the outer walls were empty; their panes fallen victim to time and teenagers. The windows that remained were useless—coated in the same filth as everything else. Hanging over it all was a pungent, musty odor; the product of decades of mildew and chemicals slowly working their way into the fixtures. The occasional death of a worker only added to the macabre ambiance of the place. It wasn't unheard of for a tired machinist to trip and tumble into a giant milling machine, or have an overhead crane suddenly let go its cargo over the head of an unsuspecting worker. That kind of foreknowledge tended to rear its ugly head in my memory at the most inopportune times—namely when I was walking through the area in which it happened. It was the kind of place where you could almost see the ghosts lurking at the edge of your vision; just beyond your line of sight. I always had the feeling that if I turned fast enough I could catch a glimpse of the phantoms of long-dead workers still moving about the place; endlessly repeating the tasks they’d performed while still among the living. The combination of all that plus years in the security business made me a very cautious individual when walking around that place. After all, survival is largely a matter of discretion.
Discretion is one thing however, eyesight something else. Even the best observer has difficulty seeing an object that isn’t moving and isn’t making a sound. Consequently, all my precautions still left me unprepared for my first encounter with the cat. ‘Confronted’ would be a more accurate description. It was one of those instances where you turn and come face-to-face with something that you missed seeing before; as if it had just materialized out of thin air. All at once the cat was just there, not six feet in front of me, crouching on top of a stack of pallets. After nearly jumping out of my skin, I struggled to get my wits back under some semblance of control. It took several hard swallows to wash my heart back down my throat, along with everything else that threatened to come up that way. The first coherent thought that came to mind was that the cat must have been sitting there all along or else I would have spotted his movement. My second thought was that if it had been a bobcat instead of a pussycat I would have been so much ground chuck right about then. Then I got my first good look at it.
It had to be one of the most frightful-looking animals I’d ever seen. Its face was horribly misshapen by scars, giving it a goitrous appearance. The fur on its back was a tangled snarl in some places, completely missing in others. Cankerous, puss-oozing sores pockmarked the areas of bare skin. For a minute I thought I was looking at the specter of some long-dead plant mascot come to pay its respects, be it out of good will or bad. Then I saw that it breathed and blinked, and knew for certain that it was real. Despite the animal’s appearance, it was the eyes that held my attention. Although dilated from hunting in the dark; a sharp, yellow corona was still plainly visible around the pupils and I found them deeply disturbing on some intimate level. It was a dynamic contrast to the cats’ short, flint-colored fur. More than that though, I sensed an intelligence in those eyes far different from any I’d ever encountered. The cat continued to watch me; its intense, unblinking stare giving me the feeling I was being examined under a microscope and somehow found to be lacking. The cat was actually thinking; studying; considering me. Then it arose and disappeared in one leap.
The next time I came across the cat was three days later. I was curious by then as to whether it had just been passing through or if the plant was part of its domain. The all-too-close encounter of our first meeting had given me pause to consider how I had been conducting my rounds—specifically, the difference between merely looking and actually seeing. As a result, I was much more diligent in my inspections and sure enough; there on top of a giant lathe I caught a glimpse of a gray figure gliding stealthily across the crest of the machine. It only spared me a glance, it was obviously on the prowl, but in that glance I sensed no contempt or fear. On the other hand, there was no interest in its expression either. It acknowledged my presence and then dismissed me just as quickly. It didn’t seem intimidated by my size or species in the least. It was simply after prey; a category of which I didn’t belong; thus I had been relegated to the status of a fixture no more significant than the lathe it sat upon. I stood perfectly still, fascinated. It crouched, frozen on the cowling of the lathe motor; peering off into some dark corner with an intensity no less than that of its larger cousins on the African plains. I took the opportunity to examine it more closely. It was male in gender; small in build, and lean in the extreme. His coat was the roughest, filthiest thing I’d ever seen and the hideous wounds covering his face attested to the horrific battles he’d been in. I guessed him to be no more than three or four years of age and they had obviously been tough ones. Suddenly, he leaped out of sight.
Definitely not your classic ‘mouser.’
Over the following weeks I came across him more and more. He wasn’t seeking me out deliberately because he never paid any attention to me. It was more as if he simply got use to having me around. I became part of his environment and he accepted me as such. There were machines and shelves and piles of raw materials and me. I grew accustomed to seeing him on most of my patrols. He never got too close but once he knew I was in the building he never let me out of his sight until I left. Eventually he started following me from building to building as I made my rounds; yet he still made no friendly overtures, nor did he accept any. It got to the point where I actually found him waiting for me inside the first door I came through as I started my patrol. He stayed in my general vicinity until I completed my round and went back out the door leading to the security shack. It was odd having a cat for a shadow but I rather enjoyed it. I began to bring balls to work. I scrounged up pieces of string. I even tried playing the beam of my flashlight on the floor and against the walls near him. To my surprise, he never showed the slightest interest in any of them. Playing was something he simply did not do. It was some time before I found out why.
There was a large, grassy yard between the two largest buildings of the plant which acted as a stockpile area for various items that were too large to stash inside. As I walked through the yard one night I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. A rabbit was making a break from cover now that I’d passed it by. I had missed seeing the rabbit but the cat didn’t. A gray blur came out of nowhere; hitting the rabbit with a flurry of energy. The cat landed high on his target, digging his claws in deep around the head and neck as both animals tumbled into the grass. I was taken aback by the suddenness and ferocity of the attack. A conflict of emotions rose within me as I watched the cat in action. It felt both wondrous and terrifying at the same time. The rabbit was twice the cat’s size and held the advantage in sheer strength. Tenacity, agility, and experience were the only things the cat had going for it. In the end, it was enough. I turned and walked away as the rabbit’s legs stuttered in the tell-tale rhythm of death. I was glad that the hunter would eat that night, yet angry and sad at the same time—as most people are when they see prey fall to the predator. The speed and savagery of the hunter’s attack astonished me. I felt enthralled, watching the cat take on another animal that was more than his match. At the same time I tried to dispel my disappointment that the cat had only been using me as a bush-beater.
As I continued my round I reflected on what I’d seen. It hadn’t struck me as particularly odd until right then but even in the city there’s usually a profusion of animal life. Squirrels and chipmunks scurry over the ground, scavenging for food. Birds nest in every nook, cranny, and overhang there is. Bats and owls hawk the city lights, hunting the insects and other nocturnal creatures drawn there. Animal life is everywhere if you know where to look. Here there was almost nothing. Now I knew why. There hadn’t been the slightest hint of playfulness in his attack—which told me he must have been on his own from a very early age. That also lent support to the theory that he’d had very little or no direct interaction with humans. He was obviously of a domestic variety but there seemed to be no domestic imprint left. Years of surviving on his own had taken care of that. He was as wild as if he were born to it, and there were good arguments that this was indeed the case. The untamed instincts of his ancestors had surfaced and they were what allowed him to survive. To him, Life was about food, water, and shelter. It angered me that fate had dealt the cat such an unforgiving hand but by the same token it seemed to have brought us together. I resolved to try and see if I could penetrate the shell that was his world.
Later that week I went to the hardware store and bought a pair of heavy work gloves. After that came the supermarket. Not knowing what foods might appeal to an animal that hunted exclusively for its meals, I bought everything from milk and cat food to crackers and fruit punch. I started putting on the gloves before each round and leaving foods of various types next to kills I suspected he’d made. As I half-expected, he ignored the food. Predators have to stay sharp to survive and hunting for his food was what kept him sharp. After two weeks with no luck I decided to change tactics. The direct approach seemed the next logical choice. I waited until the end of one of my patrols. His normal practice was to wait nearby until I hit my last station and went through the door before taking off on his own again. This time however, I didn’t go out the door as usual but instead walked over to a large, open area at the end of an aisle and set several pieces of torn cold cuts on the floor. From there, I walked over to a wall; turned, and crouched before looking in his direction. The change in routine caught him off guard but it was obvious from the start that he knew what I was up to. He circled the food at a distance, then started pacing the floor; keeping to the open area half-way between the food and the wall opposite me so he could keep an eye on me as well. He still didn’t trust me.
It was funny in a way. We both knew he was going to take the food but first it seemed he had to go through this ritual of resistance. It was as if he were considering the implications of the overture and of taking the food while I was present. The prospect of expanding on our level of coexistence seemed to be of major concern to him. It took about ten minutes for him to make up his mind but once he did he settled in to eat with an ease and gusto that both surprised and pleased me. I walked away with renewed hopes that I could somehow connect with him. I spent the next several weeks encouraging this new level of trust. I didn’t leave food for him every day, nor did I leave him too much. My desire wasn’t to make him dependent on me for food but to earn his trust. At the same time, I didn’t want him to lose his hunters’ edge. The only thing I did differently each time was to move farther out away from the wall a short step or two. I was preparing both of us for the next step, that of getting him to eat directly out of my hand.
When the time came, he did it with an ease that astounded me. I scattered some food on the floor, left some more in the palm of my glove and set it down next to the food on the floor. He ate what was on the floor first; all the while watching me with one eye. When he finished what was there he put his front paws up on my hand without hesitation and began eating the food in it. I’d never been so close to him before. His claws were long and ragged; and looked as though they’d never been cut. He seemed too small for his age but what was there was strong. Like his brethren all over the world his body took on the appearance of one giant, tensed muscle. For the first time I noticed deep scars on his body as well as those I’d previously seen on his face. He’d suffered appalling injuries at the hands of his enemies. I could see the marks of old wounds running like a spiderweb down the flanks of his hind legs. His back seemed covered with them as well; the thick, ugly lines disappearing beneath his stomach. It was clear that he hadn’t just been in fights—he’d been mauled—and by something a lot bigger than he was. The puss I’d seen oozing from sores before was from poorly healing wounds that had become infected. A pang of sorrow clutched me and my throat started to constrict.
With a start I realized he was trembling; not out of fear—we’d been around each other far too long for that—yet I couldn’t think of any other reason for it. As I watched him shake I felt a peculiar twinge in my chest. I hadn’t had much reason to trust humans in the past either. In that moment something changed in my perception of him. I too had been mauled from time to time in my life. I just didn’t wear the scars on the outside. I looked at his face again. He’d finished eating and was just standing there, half on my hand, gazing intently at my face as if he was reading my thoughts. I’d never had an animal look at me like that before, and damn few humans. With a rush; unspoken thoughts passed between us across a bridge I suddenly knew we would never fully transcend. He turned after a moment to look once around the room; then scampered off into the darkness. I stood; poignantly gazing at the spot where he’d disappeared. I wasn’t looking for something as stereotypical as a pet. I never tried to grab or pet him. The moment my hand came up I knew he would run and I wouldn’t have blamed him a bit. That would’ve made affection a condition and both of us had had enough of that. I had the sinking feeling that we had gone as far as we would go together.
For three weeks our relationship remained unchanged. Although I continued to leave food for him occasionally, I didn’t try to get him to eat out of my hand again. I had gotten that message, or so I thought. Then one night I was walking down one of main aisles on my rounds when my sixth sense told me something was behind me. I sneaked a look over my shoulder and blinked, flabbergasted to see the cat was following not three steps behind me. We went on like that for several yards before I stopped and turned to him.
“What?â€
He stopped when I did. When I spoke, he sat down and looked at me expectantly. I merely looked back at him, bewildered. He was asking me something, that much I knew, but for the life of me I couldn’t imagine what. I squatted down to look more closely at him while I tried to figure out what it was he wanted. His eyes wavered for a moment; then, before I could react, he crouched and pounced on my shoulder. It startled me so badly I nearly fell over backwards. I froze in terror; expecting to feel those big claws digging into my shoulder or gouging at my neck and face any second. It took a moment for me to realize that wasn’t going to happen. I could feel his claws through the material of my shirt but they were clutching for purchase, not attack. Slowly, I turned my head to look at him in bewilderment. His head was bobbing up and down as well as turning from side to side in sharp, jerky movements. It seemed as if he didn’t even know I was there. He was too busy checking out the view from his new perch. I stood up slowly, careful to make sure my motions would not disrupt him. I gave him another minute to adjust to the view and his new position once I had risen to my full height. I kept my hands at my sides.
He was uncertain to be sure. I could feel his claws digging into my shirt—and through them felt the trembling of his body. I stole another sideways glance at him. He was scanning the room with what I swore was anticipation. I took it to be a good sign and started off again with slow, steady steps. It took a while for him to adjust to the rhythm of my stride but he rode it out well and never wavered. By the end of my round we both knew we’d found a symbiosis of sorts. From that day on we were a pair. The thought of him scratching or hurting me never even crossed my mind. Don't ask me why. It was one of those things you just know isn’t going to happen. After that first walk I took to laying my gloves on my shoulder instead of wearing them. They gave him a better grip and served as a layer of protection between those piercing claws and the flimsy material of my uniform shirt.
After a while a new routine began to emerge. If he wasn’t waiting for me when I came in the door to start my round I’d click my tongue a couple of times and squat. If he was around, he’d come running. If he wasn’t, I would continue on my patrol. Usually we would cross paths somewhere along the way. He would see or hear me coming and be waiting on top of a machine or stack of pallets for me. I would stop to give him a stationary target and he would leap to my right shoulder. It got so I could tell when something was wrong or someone else was around by the tension level in his body. I always stopped moving whenever he tensed. He would leap off and go his way to check things out while I went mine. I could tell by the way he moved off if he was stalking prey or if there was another human being nearby. When the coast was clear he would come back to his spot on my shoulder and we would continue on our way. Being around his heightened senses also raised mine. Together we became quite adept at detecting intruders; both the two-legged and four-legged kinds.
As the weeks flew by and winter began to set in he lost some of his furtiveness but never completely relaxed. With the coming of heavy snow and colder temperatures I began to notice that his kills were becoming more scarce. He took to spending less time on my shoulder and more time off hunting by himself. The shortage of readily available prey caused him to travel farther afield for his sustenance. As we moved into January I noticed his already gaunt frame thinning further still, despite the occasional snacks I still left for him. It grew bitter cold. Heat within the buildings was practically non-existent once operations shut down at the end of the workday. The walls had no insulation and the heaters were old-style filament units that hung from the high ceiling so very little warmth reached the floor thirty feet below. Snow billowed in through the cracks of loose-fitting doors to create drifts around the inside walls.
After two weeks of below-zero weather I began to notice blood on my gloves. His callused paws were cracking open in the cold. The tender skin between the pads on his feet had split and with his constant need for movement they continued to open and close. Layers of blood clots were evident from the wounds constantly reopening. As long as he stayed on his feet they would never heal and he had to stay on his feet to survive. At that point I decided to break my self-imposed ban on touching him. The next time he leaped on my shoulder I unzipped the top part of my parka and lifted him inside the coat, leaving him plenty of room to jump out if he wanted to. The pocket would keep him warm and off his feet while still affording him a view of his surroundings. Surprisingly enough, he took to it without complaint. By the end of January he was still shivering despite my best efforts to keep him warm underneath the parka. His frame continued to thin, his ribs standing out in stark contrast to his emaciated figure. It came to the point where I either had to do something more or watch him die.
Watching him die was not an option as far as I was concerned—even though I understood it was an integral part of life, especially life in the wild. I was surprised at how vehemently I rejected the idea. Somewhere along the way I’d come to care a lot more for this little hunter than I realized. I elected to try and see if he would enter the security shack. It had an excellent heater that would provide him with warmth at least for the eight hours I was on duty. He’d never been inside it but I reasoned that it was part of the plant, just like the rest of the buildings, so it stood to reason that he would be receptive to the idea of going into it. I tested my hypothesis by carrying him out to the shack at the end of one of my rounds and opening the door. Warm air washed across our faces. He perked up at the change in temperature and eagerly sniffed the air; testing it. I set him down on the threshold, keeping the door open to leave him the choice of going in or out. He stood for a full minute anxiously eyeing the place before bounding inside. He scampered about the room, checking every nook and cranny as I closed the door. I sat down at my table to make my hourly entry in the logbook while he scurried around the room. I had no sooner started writing when he jumped up on the high countertop that spanned the length of the shack and raced towards me. He leaped onto my shoulder and the next thing I knew an ice-cold nose was nudging my right ear and neck. He rubbed the side of his head hard up against mine and emitted a rough, grumbling noise. With a start I realized that was what passed for purring with him. I’d never heard him speak before, not even a cry. From the sound he was making I could tell that his vocal cords were damaged, whether from the cold or some battle I didn’t know.
He sat on my shoulder and continued to rumble, bumping my head affectionately. I reached up with one hand and he jerked momentarily as I touched him, running my hand down the length of his back in one long, slow stroke. His spine curled upward in response. After a minute he made up his mind. The rumbling increased in volume. I doubted anyone had ever done that to him before. I turned back to my writing. After a few minutes his purring ceased. He maintained his position on my shoulder and neither of us said anything more. The next night I brought in an old blanket and empty box. He watched the activity with great interest as I set them both in a corner, plainly understanding the implications. He waited until I had finished my chore and was back in my chair before walking over and inspecting his new accommodations more thoroughly. I poured myself a cup of hot chocolate and watched.
He sniffed the blanket a few times and walked a circle or two over it to test it. Then he turned to give me a look before leaping to the countertop and quickly making his way toward me. I set my cup down in anticipation of another leap onto my shoulder. Instead, he stuck his face in the hot chocolate and started lapping contentedly at the slowly melting miniature marshmallows floating on top. My eyes about popped.
“After all the things I tried to give you, you go after my hot chocolate!â€
He raised his head to look at me, his dirty face and whiskers dripping with cocoa and melted marshmallows. There was a lightness in his eyes I’d never seen before. I swore there was a twinkle to them. I poured the contents into the bowl I had brought many months ago and made myself another cup. He went back to chasing marshmallows while I continued my writing. The hunter made it through the remaining winter months in good shape. Once he grew accustomed to the security shack it became his second home. By day he roamed the plant grounds and buildings. At night he stayed with me. We never played together—life had taken that from him long ago—but there was a light-hearted intimacy we enjoyed when in each others’ company. When he looked at me, his eyes were calm and steady. I would get the sense that he was studying me quite often.
The spring thaw eventually came, and with it the game returned. By that time he had filled out in size again and was raring to go, romping in the fields of newborn grass and rediscovering all his old haunts. He spent much less time in the shack once the weather lightened but that didn’t bother me. He preferred wide open spaces to roam and I understood that. He would often times come by my office, leaping up to the windowsill and growling in his own peculiar way just to let me know he was there. He’d wait until I acknowledged his presence before leaping off the sill again and disappearing. Once in a while he would come up and wait by the door to the shack or the building when he knew it was near the time for my patrol. I would pick him up and place him on my shoulder and we’d head off on our rounds together.
Then one night in the latter part of June we were making a patrol through the farthest of the two largest buildings. I was walking down one of the aisles near the far end of the building when I felt him tense. I stopped in my tracks and looked at him. His whole body was taunt and trembling, as if he were being electrocuted. I’d never seen him agitated like that before. He was staring straight ahead where two large stacks of metal I-beams marked the end of the corridor. I could tell he was upset in the extreme yet he refused to leave my shoulder. I followed his stare but could make out very little in the dim lighting. I listen but there was no sound. Then I caught a glimpse of movement between the stacks of metal. It was low to the ground and moving very slowly toward us. At first I thought it was a man and called out to him.
“Hey! I see you there!â€
There was no response and the shadow kept moving. I began to get an uneasy feeling.
“Who’s there?!†I called out again, then breathed a sigh of relief as the shadow moved into the light and I saw it was a small dog. No wonder the cat was uptight. He must have had plenty of run-ins with dogs in his life. No doubt some of the scars on his body could be attributed to fights with the neighborhood pack. Then the uneasy feeling returned. The head and tail didn’t look right somehow. It took me a moment to realize why. It wasn’t a dog that I was looking at.
It was a rat.
It was the biggest rodent I’d ever seen. Its hair was brown and smoothed back along its body and the tail snaked out from its hind end for almost two feet. The eyes were black with a silver glint to them that had nothing to do with the light reflecting off those disquieting, opaque pools. The cat was shaking and I didn’t blame him a bit. I was shaking too. I was over a hundred times the rats’ size and it scared me. The rat took two steps forward. Our eyes locked and somehow I knew instinctively that in a moment it was going to charge. I also knew I couldn’t run fast enough to get away. Frantically, I scanned my surroundings for any kind of weapon. There was a stack of broken pallets nearby but far outside my grasp from the center of the aisle. I knew the beast would hurdle itself at me the minute I moved. There was no chance of making it to the stack and grabbing a board before it was on me. The thing was only about ten feet away. The two of us stood looking at each other. The rat had me and it knew it. The thought of that animal taking a bite out of me filled me with horror and a cold icicle of fear wormed its way down my back, settling at the base of my spine. The rat picked that instant to lunge forward with a speed I didn’t believe possible.
The cat jumped.
A million things went through my mind in the time it took the cat to cover the distance between the rodent and myself. I’d all but forgotten the hunter until he launched himself from my shoulder. He’d simply gone right out of my mind. I’d never even considered him part of the equation. The rat was three times his size. Where the rabbit had been natural prey, this was another predator, and a much more powerful one at that. The cat didn’t stand a chance. But he was fast. He was a gray blur as he left my shoulder. As fast as the rat moved, the cat was on him before he could make two feet. He came down on the rodents’ face, digging his claws into that massive head.
I lunged for the stack of pallets.
The rat was startled but not so badly that he wasn’t able to recover. Its massive jaws snapped wildly as the hunter held fast, spinning with the movement of the rodent’s head to keep away from its maw. The rat started twirling as if chasing its tail in an effort to grab the nimble feline. The hunter stayed with him, eluding that rancorous mouth by a hair’s breath. Suddenly, the rat switched directions and its jaws ground shut, nearly sundering the cat in half.
Something snapped inside me. All the things that I had felt for the cat in the past year but had kept inside for his sake came pouring out. The ache I had held at bay for the pains and hardships he had suffered as well as the kindness and fellowship he had shown me came gushing to the surface in a tidal wave of rage that it should end this way. I didn’t care that this might have been the natural order of things; that the weak must die and the strong survive. The rat had been coming for me, not him. The cat didn’t have to jump. He could have easily run away; avoiding the fight altogether. This hadn’t been his fight. It was between the rat and me. Instead the cat had jumped to buy me time.
The rat shook his head to free the cat’s claws from his head and flung the dead animal aside. Then he came for me. Murderous rage galvanized me into action. I grabbed a large board from the top of the stack, whirling and bringing the plank down with a snarl just as the rat closed on me. It took the first blow square on the head and that was enough to stun it. I kept hitting it until the skull cracked open, spilling its contents onto the ground. I walked over to the cat but there was no question as to his fate. He’d been dead before he hit the ground. I left him where he’d fallen and went to get the box and blanket that had been home to him for the past six months.
I buried him in the field near the spot where he’d taken the rabbit so long ago.
The next day workers in the plant weighed the rat on a shipping scale. It came in at just over fifteen pounds. Although they knew of the cat, none of them believed the tale I related about the events of the night before. The cat had shunned their attentions. Someone nailed the rat to the wall by the time clock, hanging it by its tail so everyone could see it and revel in its size. Speculation ran that it was a river rat that had come up from the Mississippi a quarter-mile away. Nobody knew why it had come so far afield. Some thought it had gone insane. Others claimed it had simply been looking to expand its territory.
I took it down the following night.
Wearing the gloves that had provided a perch for my friend for so long, I carried the rodent far into the field. I picked a spot close to the fence and within sight of the river and hammered a steel post into the ground. Then I mounted the rat on it by jamming its mouth over the rod and hammering on it until the tip nearly came out its rear.
And then I picked up the baseball bat I’d brought from home and walked away on my round.
One Walker.
The choice of Joy or Agony is a choice of positive and negative. Growth, change, and evolution all stem from positive choice or Joy. Destruction, negation, sterility, and devolvement all stem from the negative choice of Agony. I believe that if this universe ever reaches an overwhelming majority of positive force it will evolve-as a whole-into something else. What that might be I don't know. 
Send me good wishes and Intent everybody! Please!