He sits in his window and surveys his territory. He owns the neighborhood, even if he isn’t allowed outside anymore. There isn’t a critter in two blocks who doesn’t know to bow their heads as they passed by the stretch of lawn his ever vigilant eye scans daily.
His exploits are the stuff of legend. Death had stalked his steps many a day but each time he’d turned to face it and swatted it back with a bat from his dark, extra-towed paws. He went face to face with a car and lived to tell the tale. Precautionary quarantines hadn’t held him for long during his younger days. He would be back out to mark his territory as soon as he was allowed. He had never been afraid to walk right down the middle of the street with vicious dogs on either side gnawing at their leashes in the hopes of a chance to chase him.
Of all things to force him into retirement, it had to be the likes of an automated garage door. And he had been so close to escaping intact. Stupid tail. Sure it was good for balancing but to have it trailing behind all the time. It was bound to get caught in something, sometime. And that something had been a garage door and that sometime had come. And the tail had gone.
But instead of being able to use that tail, or rather the lack thereof, to further intimidate and impress his position on the others it had been his doom. Instead of being allowed to share the newest scar and the only tale he had left, he was the butt of a twisted joke. He was relegated to the stale and predictable indoor life.
But he is just biding his time, watching the activity on the other side of the window and waiting for the right moment. He only has one left and he will make it count. He would go out with a bang, even if it is the last thing he does (actually, that’s what he’s counting on).
And there he sits still, a sphinx. Enduring, patient, as chipped and damaged as the original. He sits and plots, ready and waiting for an opportunity to present itself and an ending befitting the legendary creature that he is.