The other night just as I was going to bed, I heard a kind of yowling, screeching sound outside. Cats. Cats fighting. In my generously appointed backyard, it sounded like. I put on a dressing gown (because a thick cotton gown is ample protection against the howling wind and cold of a Melbourne night in September, before Mother Nature has twigged it’s meant to be spring) and took a look outside the back door.
Two cats were rolling in the grass, claws out, fighting for truth, justice, and what they knew was right. And making that kind of cat fighty noise that cats do, but for which I am struggling to come up with a suitable verb.
Thanks to the fact that you have the internet installed on your computermachine, you can listen to it, just by pointing your mousey thing here and clicking: catfight.mp3 (63Kb)
They noticed my presence, and stopped fighting. Like a couple of little kids caught doing something they quite obviously shouldn’t, they stared at me in the dark. I stared back.
I paused. We all kept staring at each other. Then deliberately fast, and putting my best intimidating foot forward, I took a half pace towards them. They bolted into the night.
