I know Dasha thinks I dream of chasing mice. I would be annoyed, but I have better things to do, and it’s not her fault, she’s just a People, and all cats know that all People are simple-minded. It’s one of the reasons we domesticated them and have stuck around for so long looking after them.
The truth is, I dream of air that is hot and dry. Air that is alive and twisting in the heat. Alive, but without breath. The grassland is thirsty and still. As I stalk, silently my paws disturb tiny particles of dirt which rise in tendrillous curls around my claws, which twitch and wait impatiently to be unleashed. Then the scent, teases my whiskers and nostrils, I breathe in deeply, my heart races, I feel blood pounding inside my head. But I wait. I must move closer, unseen, invisible. I am the dry brittle parched grass, I am the dust, I am the air, shimmering and writhing in the scorching sun. I feel my muscles tense, the beating in my heat is getting louder, I burst out of the grass, paws tearing and scraping at the earth. The herd is running too, but I don’t see them, I have my prey in sight and I can see nothing else. It starts, runs the wrong way, away from the herd. I knew it would. I am at its side, I smell its fear and sweat as I leap up and sink my teeth into the back of its neck. I hear its pained, panicked lowing, the sound makes me tighten my jaw.. A lioness comes alongside and sinks her beautiful claws into the struggling buffalo, our weight pulls it down onto its knees. It will all be over soon, the lioness takes its throat in her powerful jaws and crushes its windpipe. Then I wake up.
…Mice I ask you, there are far more terrible and glorious acts to dream of than those that result in the death of a mouse.