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January 4th 2011    Tim Candler

    Coyote last night to the east.  Never certain whether their singing is from joy of life or from angst, and sometimes it sounds like bitter quarreling.  That sort of shouting game which spills into the emergency ward, then on to the magistrate.

    My mind always goes to the Grey Cat.  I see him high in a tree staring down at them teasing. Or I see his bloody parts scattered and fought over.  So I went down stairs and there he was taking his turn on our chair, determined not to be disturbed.  I gave him a little tickle and he gave me a small scratch on the blotchy part of my hand.

     This morning he was on the bed, so I chose to wash the sheets, and I have to say I took some pleasure from edging him onto the floor.  Aggressive of me I suppose, but we both know it is a continual struggle this far down on the pecking order.

    Then a person feels guilty.  He tries to concentrate on productive things.  He tries to tell himself this is a nature of being, and there are winners and losers in our competition to die last.  Which is probably why he is pretending to sleep in the doorway, hoping I might step on his tail, because when that happens he is king for a day or two.

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