In the early morning darkness of the front room, the cat crouches on the hardwood floor, staring intently at the space beneath the chair in the corner.
She doesn't move, or even blink, except when she occasionally adjusts her crouch and, in doing so, scoots almost imperceptibly forward.
It's like she's hunting, doing her genetically hardwired stalking thing, but when I look beneath the chair, following the line of her sight and staying very still, all I see are dustbunnies and balls of fur, silent and unmoving.
I lay down to do my daily yoga, leaving her to her strange game, and suddenly feel something brush my foot, like a whiskered face marking me the way cats do, but when I open my eyes, she's several feet away, still crouched, still staring.
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