Owl trotted down the street. She was careful to avoid the humans and other strays while trying to make it back to the alley as quick as possible. Food was very scarce during the winter and not the mention the cold air. Kits never survived the winter! But then again, Owl was no kitten.

A few scraps of old chicken dangled from her maw as she crept alongside of the red brick wall. The chilly surface caused her white-brown fur to prickle and a shiver run up her spine. With a quick sharp turn to the left, she entered a dark alley. Over flowing trashcans and black plastic bags amongst old furniture were piled up against the wall. Venturing further into the place she called home, the feline set the scraps down before meowing out:

“Mouse! Don, I’m home. Shoe, Slush?”

She was greeted by silence, which caused her to flatten her ears. Was no one home? Something rustled in the corner and Mouse emerged from a box. The mousy-furred she-cat’s fur was ruffled and little tufts pointed into random directions. Sitting down and smoothing down her fur, Mouse made eye contact with the smaller cat.

“This was all I could find,” Owl mewed rather shamefully, nudging the small chicken leg and a piece of chicken breast to the other cat. Twitching her whiskers, Mouse stood up and trotted over to her ‘alley-mate’ and nudged the cat’s shoulder reassuringly.

“At least you found something,” the other cat mewed dully, “I found nothing but a group of mangled toms!”

As the last word rolled off her tongue, Mouse showed the small cut on her flank from her brief yet recent fight. Owl bristled slightly but jumped when something brushed past her. A brown tom sulked past them, and was followed by a lean and skinny Siamese. The white cat’s ears flatten as she saw her Leader mope to his den. The Siamese turned his blue gaze to the two she-cats and explained:

“He lost the food to another cat in a fight.”

Mouse grunted and retreated to her den, but before slipping into the slight comfort that she had, she sneezed and mewled pitifully. Owl picked up the pieces of chicken and stowed the food into safety. Leaping onto one of the metal trashcans that had lost its lid a long time ago, she nimbly balanced on the edge while staring at the passing people. Her pale eyes were alert and wide. Small flakes of snow began to fall from the darken sky.

“I hate bareleaf[1].”


[1] Those may not be familiar with Warriors by Erin Hunter, ‘bareleaf’ the term for ‘winter.’