Cats play only one game: kill it. I’m not knocking them. If anything I envy their singular focus. Kittens pretend to eviserate their siblings with these adorable belly kicks. Mommy cats will bring live prey to their young for practice. Daddy cats are fluffy family annihilators. Lining up my scope on the tabby’s forehead, I sank my arrow deep. Eva let out a wail.

“Why did you kill her?”

“Because she was hunting what you needed, my angel.”

Hissing, Eva clutched the bloody thing to her narrow chest. The Aston Home Depot was part of our territory but I did a parameter check anyway. Saturday, Tyson had spotted wolf tracks along the Chester Creek. Most of the big box’s major gear was looted, but luckily the shrink-wrapped, rat-gnawed pallets of bird seed remained. In a singsong voice, Eva talked to the dead cat in her arms.

“I hate you Whitfield, oh yes I do. I don’t hate anyone as much as you. When you are near me I feel blue, oh Whitfield I hate you.”

She swayed away from me. I almost regretted teaching her to sing. Call me Mister Softy. Since the before times, I had tended the Coles. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. It was best to ignore her antics. Night was falling. Climbing up on the counter by the smashed cash register, I reclined to wait.

After getting a taste of my silent treatment, Eva gave me my arrow, the cat, and a charming smile. For fifteen whole minutes, I stood on principle. Then I whistled and let her tag along as I set the live catch rat traps. Under a purpling sky, we listened for the cage snaps. Ping, ping, ping.

“Time to hunt, my angel.