Title: The Game
Genre: Therianthropy/Spirituality, Humor
Rating: PG
Summary: A random little drabble about the many times my therianthropy shows a bit too much. And also a bit about the difference between 'domestic' therians and 'wild' therians.
Written: July, 2008

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Blur out of the corner of my eye, whipping head around to see. Mind shifts and suddenly there is no human control to the situation. I cut off in the middle of a word and my whole world narrows to the quick, sharp breaths of my new toy.

The large fluffy tail twitches, I know he hears me and I freeze. Every muscle stiffens, waiting, waiting for a chance. PLAY, my thoughts scream, Play, fur, squirrel, play, stalk, hunt, squirrel. There isn't order to the primal thoughts that litter my mind now, there is no listing, no planning, just here, now, and the Game.

It is a Game I play often, but never one I tire of. The brown squirrel goes back to nibbling on its scrap of food--probably stolen from a trash bin, my quiet human thoughts inform me, but I pay them little attention.

I stalk closer, and closer, testing the limits, wanting to pounce, but my human thoughts rise at this moment and redirect my feline process. It's a Game. I get as close as safety allows, the Rules: no touching, no biting, no pounce, but always a thrill just to be close. My human thoughts hold my feline thoughts to the Rules of the Game, making sure everything stays safe.

Maybe a wilder feline would have fought more against the Rules of the Game, but I just accept them and enjoy the thrill allowed to me.

I creep closer, the squirrel twitches and sudden two little black eyes are staring at me. I freeze, and we stare at each other for a long moment. I am about a foot away from the tiny creature, and the proximity leaves my nerves buzzing with excitement. I could reach out and touch, I long to paw, to pounce, to bite, to bat, to swat, but I am held to the Rules of the Game.

I breathe at the wrong moment and the squirrel flees.

My human thoughts still the feline idea of chasing further. I've won the Game, that is enough, my human thoughts say firmly. Feline thoughts ignore the authority, but still, accept the Rules. I've won.

Feline claws and teeth buzz just beyond physical and my mind hums in a pleasant way, cheered by the chase and 'victory' of the Game. It's not anything like hunting, but I wasn't trying to hunt--I was in it for the play.

I wonder back to confused and perplexed friends, although the ones who have known me long enough just sigh and shake their heads in that amused and resigned way. The way you'd shake your head at the child who is being adorable, but exasperating. They're used to the odd things I do sometimes, never explained but always done.

Untold, they accept it: I am cat.