Wilderness in the Weeds

Our cat Punkin loves to go outside. He's constantly at the back door, staring longingly at the doorknob as if willing it to open. He lurks inside when we're coming home, trying desperately to escape at the slightest motion of the opening door. Finally, when all else fails and he's truly desperate, he howls. He doesn't squeak, he doesn't meow, he howls.

I try to imagine sometimes what it must be like for him to go from a domestic house cat to a stalking, prowling hunter. He's always slinking stealthily this forest of tall weeds near the railroad tracks, looking for the slightest sign of an afternoon snack. A few times we've opened the back door only to find his latest catch, waiting for us like a macabre offering. He always comes home in the end, however. He knows full well where his meal ticket is.