Today was a day par excellence with few surprises. My older sister moved back to school, my youngest sister had a princess tea-party with her friends, and I was as sick as the proverbial dog (don’t ever let a doctor give you a double-dose of the Hepatitis vaccine, no matter if it’s accidental and no matter how safe he says it is).
And our cat almost decided to learn how to fly. She’s gotten into this bird-catching hobby recently, which doesn’t really fly well with my sisters. Today, she convinced herself that the best way to catch a bird is to be a bird, and she went aloft. I saw some motion out of my second-story window in one of our trees. Though I at first passed it off as a hawk, a Red Flag went up. Hawks don’t actually climb trees…
There she was, at eye-level with me, clinging heartily to the tiny upper branches of one of our oaks. The bird had long since flown. Without much remorse, Lila turned and began her long descent to the ground. It was one of those horror moments, like in the movies when Fred the Detective is about to walk into the burglar’s trap, or when you watch a fish dumbly take the bait and seal his doom.
She threw herself down, branch by branch, until she faced only the smooth trunk. Slowly, paw after paw, face first, she started coming down… and then slipped. It was the neatest 180° aerial turn I’ve ever seen executed: catching one or two paws, she stopped the fall and slung herself around before jumping the remaining seven feet to the ground. They say that there’s a fine-line between bravery and ignorance; hunting birds in their own trees seems a given to me!