Catch
peter_hasselbom
“Domesticated” only goes so far when you’ve got wild North African blood in your veins and you still stalk prey across tawny brushlands in your dreams; “tame” is a relative term.
In your heart you know it is this tranquil existence that is a fleeting dream, and that soon you will wake, without a master, for the hunt: an unbiddable beast. You are no meek, muzzled friend, no pliant pet who lives to leap into laps. You are made for pursuit, poised for the kill. The catch. All your hard muscles remember their motions.
A cat may look at a king, but ah—what a look shall greet him if the king looks back.
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