I knew I'd eventually be caught; my reflexes were never the best, and the cat's younger than me (correcting for cat-years). It was frankly a relief when she finally overtook me. And she's kind, no evil cat-games. Apologetic even; too decent to be easy with the food-chain. But I'll get no escape or clemency; whatever her feelings she's a house-mouser with a role and job, and her reflexes are lightening.

Her prey's secure, I'm at peace with my doom, no hurry for either of us, and so... we chat. Sitting at the big lounge window watching the early stars come out, comparing notes on the world. I tell her a secret. Back when I was spry enough to risk crossing the lounge, I'd watch the TV from under the sofa. One night I caught some old Hinkey Harmonies type cartoon with a scene of a bird sitting in a cat's mouth, forlornly waving bye-bye as it slid slooowly down behind the great tongue... I was so darn envious. That was how I wanted to be eaten when I got eaten. Going down whole and alive, slipping from sight to be lost in the mysteries of the gut... , It's been my favorite fantasy ever since. Wouldn't ever happen of course. No sensible predator would risk choking on me. And anyways, I doubt any real-life mouth and throat could give that beautiful slow descent...

It could with practice, says the cat. Startled from my reverie, I see her eyes are shining and her grin is practically Cheshire. The trick of it, she tells me, is to sit with head back, mouth open, prey waiting on the back of one's tongue (she practices with meatballs); to relax, meditate, focus until mouth and throat are one's entire self and one has total mastery. Then one can do it: take the prey down whole in a perfect controlled slow gulp, welcoming, embracing, sensuous, bearing them to their destiny. The meatballs were fun for playing, but she's longed to do it at least once with a true prey-partner, someone who understands and appreciates the game and experience it from their side...

And so here I am, in her roomy mouth, sitting snug on the back of the tongue, waiting as she meditates herself into the swallow-zone. Tongue firm and warm under me, not too damp for comfort. We're still at the window, the stars mostly drowned by a round white moon, and if any passing person looks in they'll be mightily mystified and whoa... She's starting. Tongue lifting in front of me and I am slipping backwards and the tongue is pushing my legs up and my back's against the back of the mouth and my buttocks are on something soft that is starting to give and... this is it. My butt is slipping down and I'm clutching my thighs and the moonlight is on the cat's teeth and tongue and the clouds that are all I can see from here and I give a little squeak of fright and delight and bitter-sweet joy as I...go... down... Goodnight cat, partner, and thank you. Hope I don't tickle.

***

Artist's note: The speaker above is not the artist, regardless of any similarities in looks. Also, the cartoon in question is most likely Tom and Jerry: Downhearted Duckling.