My nonchalant cat, racing along the baseboards, indicates to me that we have a guest. Likely a small shrew that, in the still of an empty house, appears in size tenfold.
The snout is what intimidates. Probing and poking, devoid of attraction. The antithesis of appealing. I shudder at its unverified existence, hypothesizing its demise.
The shrew’s doom born solely of my imagining.