She

She slunk through the grass eyes firmly fixed on her prey. The geese knew she was coming and with hisses charged her. Hair standing on end, crying piteously, she fled the scene pursued with much hooting and wing flapping. Through the cat flap she shot. At last they were gone, next time perhaps a sparrow or pigeon. For after all she is a tiny scrap only four months old. Bigger prey would have to wait, for now a nice bowl of milk and a platter of tasty food. Replete she curls up on her cushion.