Tiggie's death dance

By now I had figured out who the boss was.  It certainly wasn't me.  Emily continued to kiss my hand during the morning feedings.  The others would watch but stayed back.  Occasionally, I would try to put my hand on her.  She would shrink away and give me a reproachful look, but she didn't run. 

Meanwhile, the kittens began to remodel the porch.  There were various things on the porch that became toys.  The favorites were a pot of dry pussy willow branches, a snow shovel and a broom.  At night I'd hear thumps and crashes.  In the morning, the pot would be tipped, branches would be scattered about and the broom and shovel would be knocked over. 

I began poking at the kittens with the branches.  To Mama's disgust, they would play with me.  But they wouldn't allow pats.  Sometimes I'd scatter catnip on the porch floor and watch out a window.  Reserved and serious Mama would loose her dignity and roll around like a fool. 

But Mama wasn't a fool.  If she caught me watching, she would glare and remove herself and children from my line of sight.  And if she caught me spying during her war games, she would take the games elsewhere.  She didn't miss much.  Once she even caught me spying out a second story window.  But I had my ways and was privileged to see some very strange sights.  Mama was teaching her kids.  There were chasing games and stalking games.  The night before a hunt she would psych them up by racing around and chasing her own tail.  Once she got them worked up, she would sit back and watch them scurry around like lunatics.  The lilac bushes often took the brunt of their frenzy.  The way the kittens would climb and batter those bushes caused this lilac loving human to cringe.

Not so pretty were the times Mama would catch her children live prey to play with.  Chipmunks were  frequent victims.  At first, the chipmunks and kittens were about the same size.  And the kittens would freak out.  They would skittishly prance around the scary but scared to death creature in what I came to think of as their death dance.  The cats didn't always win the battles, though.  Once Mama dove into a clump of bushes and jumped back yowling.  Apparently, the chipmunk had bitten her.  

And then Tiggie death danced the wrong victim.  One afternoon, from a window, I watched the war games.  Under Mama's supervision, the kittens were stalking and tackling each other.  Every now and then Mama would interrupt to correct their technique.  After one such interruption, she moved back to resume watching.  Suddenly, little Tiggie reared up on her hind legs. While waving her front paws up in the air, she proudly pranced on two legs towards her mother.  The look of disbelief on Mama's face was priceless.  Tiggie reached her mother and lurched menacingly above her, still waving her arms in the air.  Mama watched in disgust for another minute and then reached a paw out to slap Tiggie across the face.  A sadder wiser Tiggie  sulked for a few minutes before racing back to terrorize her siblings.            

The meat games continued.  And by now, the kittens distinct personalities were really shining through.  Although Emily was the smallest, she was the bravest.  She would come very close to get her treats.  Fat little Blue would park herself about three feet away from me, plant her enormous white feet firmly in front of her, and regally wait.  The treat had to drop directly in front of her or she couldn't be bothered.  Wolf would watch the others to make sure it was safe before he ventured out.  Ghost didn't participate in the games.  He hung back with Mama.  And there was no predicting what Tiggie would do.  One time she'd rob a sibling.  Another time, she might charge my feet and veer at the last moment.

And then the first tragedy occurred.  Mama took the children out on a hunt.  Ghost came back a day later than the rest.  And after the next hunt, Ghost never came back.