Rural Gothic

Autumn is drawing to a close, and I can feel the cold chill of the upcoming season on the tips of my ears as I slink through the yard.

I maneuver through fallen leaves and sticks, making little noise, my paws moving quickly on the damp grass, leaving small water droplets clinging to my fur.

They’re quiet tonight; I can only hear soft coos and the ruffling of feathers as I get close enough to smell the scent of straw emanating from inside the coop.

I ready myself and take a short breath before pouncing through the door with an open mouth, my lips pulled back, teeth bared.

I make quick contact with feathers, and I taste a cool rush of blood, a cacophony arising as I rip into one of the chickens, pulling, gnashing, and salivating as I go.

In seconds, I am running, blood dripping from the corners of my mouth, as the sounds of the rattled flock fade and my hunger intensifies.