The Hungry Ones

They are here again today.

The hungry ones.

Just the other side of the flimsy plywood door, I can hear them both pacing to and fro. I’ve shut the door against them and, fortunately, they’re not smart enough to figure out handles.

Yet.

They are smart enough to know, however, that I can’t stay in here forever. Sooner or later I’ll have to emerge and they’ll be waiting. Waiting for as long as it takes.

It’s what they do.

From time to time, I hear a soft noise from one of them like a low mew, followed by the scrabble of their claws on the tiles outside the door as they pause in their relentless pacing for a bout of bad-tempered boxing.  Each wants to be the only one, but neither is strong enough to drive off the other. It’s soon over though, and the endless pacing resumes.

Sometimes, they attack the door in a flurry of rapid claws as if they imagine they can wear and tear the thin plywood away and get in.

Sometimes, they make piteous mewling noises, hoping I’ll be stirred to pity and open the door. They do this even though they know it will do them no good.

I’ll not be fooled.

Again.

It’s not me they want.

It’s the treasure I guard.

Salmon sandwiches with two cats in the house! What was I thinking?