Our personal soft spot of belly fur presses against the bark of things.
That belly spot has our name on it.
We know we carry our belly like a child slung between our legs and arms, full of its heart beat and the life of eating things.
We know something else wants to eat us, and use our tree to build itself a nest.
If we did grow up on a ranch, a farm, the woods, with more skin to the night, we fear the tree line under a full moon and listen to the screams of things eaten by things eating.
If we grew up in a city, we fear the alley at night. We fear the sound of an ambulance taking a dying elder full of shelves filled with falling tea cups of memories to a hospital. We fear cops who might be paid off by a local wolf, to allow them to use their license to hunt us without any soulful permit or guilt.
We fear the fearless wolf of the streets who eats honest cops.
The most afraid thing in the world is a born Fat Cat, because these fat cats fear the rest of us, that we might charge the castle and pull them out of the shell of their Swiss Back Accounts or Cayman Island Soup bowls, and drag them into the light of day.
They would pee themselves some thin chicken soup, and ask for mercy and offer to pay perhaps a couple of percentage points more toward the taxes the rest of us field rabbits pay.
They accuse us of class warfare, and blackmail our futures.
The fat cats have their nails trimmed at fancy claw shops, and leave a trail of goose liver droppings and fine wine piss.
Learn to track their droppings.
They study you, feral blue collar cat.
Feel their soft belly on the limb.
Treat your cat clan better than they treat you.