Cat Mojo is sixteen years old. When he was in his prime, he could catch a
fly in mid air. He was FAST. Not so much now. When a moth fluttered by today, Mojo vaulted,
but the moth got away.
Later, I saw the moth on the floor. Instead of catching it myself and releasing
it out the door, I thought it would be more fun to watch Mojo catch it. I nudged it with my toe. It jumped. Mojo jumped. The chase was on.
Mojo did his best to pounce on the poor, doomed moth. He leapt around in circles, hugging
the floor after each leap, ready to spring again. Suddenly the moth disappeared. Mojo held his crouch – his body motionless
and his head darting everywhere in search of his pray.
Baffled, he stood up.
Under him lay a flat, dead, not-too-interesting moth. There wasn’t too much thrill in the kill, but
he ate it nevertheless.
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