Cat and mouse

A cat crossed my running path. An exquisite feline. The muscles still visible underneath the fat. A Medusa with a beer gut. Domesticated cat gone wild. Hard worker, hard player. She stares me down from accross the street. I am sure she fed on the likes of me in any of her previous eight lives. I am still running, matching her stares, but she she turns away. I am sure it is in disgust. Like she's run my route, like she knows my line. But I know that fat, staring, or running, we are all in the grips of our defensive mechanisms.