Scout perches precariously on the thin windowsill, the sides of her hanging stomach partially cover her feet. Her muscles twitch every few seconds but her gaze never wavers. Her one eye is locked on the three pigeons that have decided to once again roost on the roof of the neighboring house.

As she moves closer, pressed tight against the small window her, feet slip from the edge forcing her to quickly regain her balance. Black fur masks her empty left socket where her eyelids were surgically joined years ago. The last time she was on the other side of the glass, Scout had lost a direct battle with a car at the tender age of six months. Or maybe she had won given her current state of breathing regularly.

As she moves closer to the end of the sliding windows, she calls out in her primal bird song, a near cackle of a cry. Her tail whips and her jaw vibrates as she remembers hunts buried deep in her DNA.

I slide open the window for her to taste the cool air. Her peaceful stalking is quickly broken by the shrill horns from the cars below. I close the window but it is too late. Scout hops from the sill to the down comforter, circling twice before cleaning her paws.


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