A Cat From Canada HTML version

On a beautiful Saturday morning, at 7:00 A.M., I decided to
go to my personal playground. It was located on the opposite
side of our three car garage.
I played with my toys, did pull-ups on the monkey bars and
horsed around until 7:45 A.M. until something quite unusual
caught my eye.
Someone slowly drove his dark van through our street a
total of five times. Each time it appeared that the driver was
eyeing someone or something. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to
break into one of the mansions on our block, steal an article
from a yard or snatch a human or animal and then drive off
really fast. Either way, I placed myself on high alert.
On the fifth round the driver pulled over right in front of
our neighbour’s mansion. The Martin’s were a retired elderly
couple. Both had once been stock brokers who’d made it big. They
were set for life. But unfortunately for them they were in their
eighties. Not much to do at that age even as a multi
I stopped horsing around, and then slowly crept towards the
dark van but halted at the peripheral of our lawn. I squatted
down, zoomed in on the dark van and extended my claws and bared
my teeth.
I was ready for combat. So much so I could almost feel my
blood boiling.
Then, out came a hefty pot-bellied man, over six feet tall.
He was carrying a tool case in his right hand and a wrench in
his left.
The hefty man was wearing blue overalls, a flannel shirt,
jeans and steel workman boots.
His hair was greasy and predominately gray but still
contained about 30 percent black hair. Beads of sweat dribbled
down the sides of his head.
The hefty man could never have won a beauty contest. In
fact, I instantly took him for a criminal. But as he approached
Terrence, the Martins’ sleeping Beagle whom I admired so much, I
came to the conclusion that the hefty man was a buncher. A
buncher is a low-life thug-criminal who snatches companion
animals and then sells them.
I made up my mind to attack the hefty man, choosing the
Bengal Tiger method of attack.
Bengal Tigers prefer to attack from the behind. They prefer
not to see the victim’s face. It made no difference to me,
however, as I only took it as a preferred strategy against an
armed man.
I readied myself to run across the street, enter the
Martin’s yard and then leap onto my target’s neck then take him