Cat Attack Snake
At dusk, a striped alley cat crouched near the garden wall, ears flat, tail twitching. A sudden hiss sliced the air as a green snake slid from the grass, scales shining like wet leaves. The cat sprang first, driven by instinct, swatting hard to pin the head while keeping its body arched away from fangs. The snake struck anyway, lightning quick, but met a blur of fur and claws. Dirt flew. The cat leapt back, circled, then darted in again, testing, feinting, waiting.
Neighbors watched from windows, holding breath. The cat knew patience. It tapped the tail, forcing the snake to coil tighter, then lunged to bite behind the jaw. The snake thrashed, wrapping, loosening, hissing fury into the evening. A final shake broke the grip. Silence followed, heavy and sudden.
The cat stood still, chest pumping, eyes bright with caution rather than pride. It nudged the snake once, twice, certain the danger had passed. When the cat finally turned away, it did not boast or linger. It slipped over the wall, guardian of its territory, leaving only scuffed earth and a lesson written in tracks: speed, timing, and nerve decide the wild moments that happen close to home. Night settled softly, stars blinking, while the cat vanished into shadow safely unseen.
