Target Practice

This is an unedited short that is basically me purging some frustration.


I truly don't understand most people's views toward animals. I have watched people callously abuse and kill cats, dogs, cows, chickens ... you name it ... with absolutely no conscience. 


And yet, if the same callous actions are taken toward humans, it is considered sick and wrong. Why is that?

Target Practice

Missy’s chitter wakes me from a light doze. She is at the window gazing down at the courtyard below. Her ears prick forward as she crouches down below the sill, eyes fixed on her potential prey.

She glances back with an excited meow as I rise from my spot on the floor, then she turns back, one paw raising toward the glass as her jaw drops in another chitter. I glance over her head and see a big one feasting at the big feeder. They just can’t resist the fresh food I put out every morning.

“That’s a good one, isn’t it, honey?” I say as I scratch Missy behind her tufted ears. She leans into my leg and purrs, then goes back to watching the activity down below.

Slowly I open the window – I don’t want to make any noise and startle it – and reach down for the bow propped in the corner. I pull three arrows from the neat pile, leaning two against the window sill just in case and fitting the third to my bow string. It is still down there feeding, oblivious to the danger, as I raise the bow and pull.

I follow its small movements for a moment, my breath stilling as I site down the smooth shaft of the arrow. Then I loose, reaching for a second arrow before the first has cleared the window. I don’t need it, though. The first pierces it’s neck, not an instant kill but a kill nonetheless. I return the bow to its resting place and draw my hunting knife with one hand while I slide the window closed with the other.

Missy follows me to the door, twining about my ankles and purring in anticipation of a good meal. The others are waiting in the next room, some lounging and some waiting expectantly at the outside door. They all come running as I pass through the room, and they form a wave of fur around my feet as I trot down the stairs to the courtyard.

It is still breathing and twitching when we reach the courtyard, its eyes frantic as it clutches at the shaft of wood piercing its neck. It’s a goner, but it doesn’t want to admit it yet. Missy runs right in for the kill, jumping on its chest and licking at the blood spilling from the wound. The others follow slower, jumping and hissing as it makes a desperate move to push Missy away.

I kneel down beside it, knife in hand, and its eyes meet mine. “Why?” it gasps around its ruined throat. “Why?”

“It’s nothing personal,” I say as I finish the job. “A girl’s got to feed her cats.”

Now that it’s motionless, the others come in to feed. I let them gorge – who knows when the next stupid one will come by – then start to carve up what’s left. It was a big one and should feed them all for at least a week if I can keep the meat from going bad.

Once the courtyard is cleaned, I refill the feeder. More will come. They always come.