The circle of Life and Death here at the Flying Pig Ranch
Out of the corner of my eye I caught the shadow. A fast moving dark blur.
"What the heck was that?"
I stood at the kitchen sink window and watched. There it was again. More an illusion than a fact. A large dark visage careening across the front field of the Flying Pig Ranch. I stood stock still and waited. Perhaps my aging mind was playing tricks on me.
It swooped low on broad wings. It was being chased by three sparrows and a starling. Undeterred it turned again, folded its wings and settled two thirds of the way down the driveway. The huge vulture paced. Warily eying its prize. A prize invisible from my vantage point.
Here at the Flying Pig Ranch we don't have fur bearing indoor pets. Too many allergies to 'animal dander'. So we have outdoor cats - or more specifically now, one outdoor cat - Pussin.
Anyone who has spent time with cats knows the difference between ambling and intent. When Pussin got up from her throne on the stoop and walked by me with intent I knew something was up. She made a direct line for the field behind the new shed.
Enamored with the prospect of a new species to list on the ranch roster I made my way outdoors to stand behind one of the Norway spruces closest to the driveway. The vulture was still being pestered by the smaller birds. Opening it 6 foot wing span it made a graceful leap to a nearby fence post. There it turned and kept a careful eye on the still unidentified prize. Mollified the smaller birds skittered away to their respective places.
Majestic in its stature the vulture just sat... almost as if in a cartoon segment... waiting... so we waited together ... I from my somewhat hidden vantage point and the vulture for ...
Pussin returned as intently as she had left. Proudly she presented the field mouse at my feet. As only a cat can she then accepted her accolades ... my scratching her behind the ears and compliments on her kill. Duly acknowledged she sat down with the dignity befiting her station and respect for her prey she began crunching away.
Satisfied that the time was right the vulture slipped from the fence post and settle next to its prize. Affixing it with one foot the sharp beak made quick work of the dissection. Three good tears each followed by a head-tilt swallow and the meal was over. A moment to preen and then taking wing the vulture rose in characteristic circles seeking thermals off our hillside to drift into the summer afternoon.
Pussin, having completed her repast, settled again on her throne to wash. Once properly appointed she languorously stretched out and napped.
Curiosity bested me. I went down the driveway. It took a moment of searching but there I found the lone fore claw of a mole.
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