I was busying myself with watching the typical late afternoon Baguio rain, when two mayas went inside the house by accident. Surrounded by glass, they couldn’t go out easily.
Both hit their heads several times on the windowpane in urgent want and panic before one, looking dizzy, landed on the metal-grid cage assembled a couple of days ago to limit the kittens, all two weeks old, from running all over the kitchen.
Just when the bird was about to fly back to its friend, our cat Momo, as fast and precise as a lawsuit, jumped out of the cage and pounced on the bird, capturing it with her mouth.
I tried to save the bird, but Momo insisted I let her be a cat. She didn’t scratch me, but she didn’t give the bird to me also. I felt that she wanted to own her chase and feel the hunt to be hers. So I distanced myself in some primordial respect.
After a few minutes she went inside the cage and offered the bird to her kittens. The kittens were all excited, and immediately started to share their own bites. They didn’t eat it, I guess they just wanted to play.
Momo didn’t care much about the bird, really, or the feeling of the hunt. I was wrong. When she saw that her children were already too happy hurdling on the fluffy feathers on a dying flesh, she slowly shrugged and slept.
I snuck my hand in the cage and took the bird away from the kittens. While picking it up I hit my head on the windowpane in urgent care and panic.
I held it, dead and warm on my hands when I noticed that the rain had stopped.
J. G. Dimaranan