King sat in the middle of the junkyard’s clearing. He soaked in the last rays of the setting sun. Hunter kept an eye on him as he circled the edge of the clearing. That was how it worked. Neither of them said anything or looked at each other. Whenever their paths crossed, King stayed on the ground and Hunter wove up along the top of the wrecks.
There was no point in confronting King. Hunter couldn’t win, at least not yet. He would wait, bide his time. As King got older, Hunter would only get stronger and bigger. Time was his ally.
Cats living together weren’t like humans, dogs or rats living together. Humans liked democracy. Dogs favored dictators. They liked somebody to tell them what to do. And rats were fascists, brutal and uncaring of each other.
Cats were anarchists. They preferred disorganization, no hierarchy and no rules. Cats would never tell each other what to do. So getting a group of cats to work together was nearly impossible. Their mantra was Independence, free thinking and free acting.
Dogs ran and hunted in packs. Rats were always together, crowded so close together it was hard to tell where one started and the other ended. But not cats. They were too independent. They hunted by themselves. They fought by themselves.
King was the leader of the colony, but that didn’t mean he led. He wasn’t wise, caring or compassionate. He didn’t take care of the other cats. He was the biggest, the most feared, and because of that he got what he wanted. He could decide to sit, sleep or nest wherever he desired. He had his choice of mates, and most importantly, he got first choice of any food Hunter brought back. King decided who could live in the colony. If he didn’t want somebody there, he drove them away with his fangs, claws and fury.
When Hunter first arrived at the colony, he had to have King’s permission to stay. He made sure King knew he wasn’t going to be a threat, so he brought him a mouse he had caught, and gave it to him at their first meeting.
King got up and jumped onto the hood of a car. He followed the trail of the setting sun and soaked up the last few rays of warmth. The other cats were becoming more active. He wouldn’t be the only one heading out to hunt. It was time for Hunter to leave, and getting the first kill was the best guarantee of a successful night.
Of all the cats, King was perhaps the least catlike. He was so big, so overstuffed, that he seemed to waddle rather than slink. Leaping up onto the hood of a car was almost the limit of his athletic ability. Hunter knew if a fight developed—when a fight developed—between them, his ability to move quickly would be his only advantage. If King pinned him down, he would rip Hunter to shreds. Hunter would have to make sure any fight with King occurred out in the open, so he had room to pounce and get out of the way. He wondered if King thought about their eventual confrontation as much as he did.
Hunter looked over toward his den. Mittens was there, surrounded by the kittens, a blur of movement, running, rolling, fighting and falling over each other. She was a good mother. He cared for her, cared for their kittens, maybe more than a tomcat should. And there was really only one way to show them how he felt. It was time to go on the hunt.