My cat, Box; my cat I say, like saying ‘my tongue,’ has brought in a rat as big as she is. I chase her, growling, into the bathroom with it, and shut the dark behind the door. Now, I pace in the hall listening to her eating it. It sounds like vomiting birds, which, I think, would be hard for a vegetarian to stomach. But is this the childlike simplicity that causes these things to assume an innocent wonder? I don’t know. After she’s through, she comes to me, purring in the dark, wanting to be petted.
25 February 1975