alley cat - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Dirt stained his matted coat, knotted and twisted with months of neglect. The bony edges of his ribcage protruded from his chest, as his underfed frame slinked in out and out of trash cans. Prodding a crushed can of cola, he raised his tail imperiously, every inch the former king of the mansion in his mind. The dark rings of his fur twisted and shifted in the shadows as he stalked through his domain, perhaps searching for a plastic packet to lick with regretful hunger. Lonely hazel eyes met mine in the flickering light of the streetlamps, staring with a challenge to feel pity for the malformed creature. The alley cat was in, and ready to roll.
The alley cat was almost more scar than fur, his ears were matted confetti and he stank worse than week old garbage. He watched with lamp-like eyes, a ring of sea-green around the expanse of black, paws always ready to run.
From the darkness rang a mew that penetrated even the drone of traffic and the clang of a garbage lid not far away. Riley stopped, heart beating fast. It sounded like Shell but he couldn't be sure and Mom had told him to come straight home after dungeons and dragons club. The cry came again, this time more shrill and without another thought he headed into the dank gloom of the alley, sneakers splashing into newly made puddles. Then he saw her, a storey up on a fire escape, drenched and holding a paw in the air. Riley laughed, the tension draining from his shoulders. But as he passed the third stair he became aware of someone else in the alley...
The scrapper from the alley doesn't look like a stray, he's just as well fed as any apartment kitty. Truthfully, the scraps from the Japanese restaurant are better than any cat food and his coat shines like he's off to a cat show. On sunny days like today he'll be on top of the old black dumpster, taking in the heat from above and below.
Perhaps it was the aroma of the sea bass on my plate that brought her through all those marching pairs of legs in the Turkish market place. She stood there staring with yellow green eyes, brown-black fur pasted over bones like a badly stuffed toy. Barely more than a kitten really. I could just see her back in my Dublin flat, fatter, happier, all that rough sticking up fur all sleek and shiny. Why do I go there in my mind when I know it's just impossible? Do other people really just see a stinky smelly cat? I tossed her some fish and it was gone almost before it hit the pavement. I signalled the waiter and ordered another fish, maybe I couldn't take her home, but I could give this alley cat the best meal of her life.
The alley cat was just plain mean. I couldn't blame it, that's life on the streets for you - makes you hard. Well that's me too and no cat's going to eat my morning catch. I used to have just to flinch in it's direction and it would run, tail up high, and not stop until it knew it was safe. Now it's so bold, if my boot can't reach it the cat just takes it's chances. Sometimes it get's a fish that's fallen out of the nets, sometimes not. It's gotten to be a game between the two of us, a battle of cunning. It'll be a shame when scrawny feline dies, but it's never getting a meal for free, that's not the way the street works.
The alley cat slinked through the cardboard debris to the back of the all night cafe. She raised her nose as the general stagnant and exhaust fume stench of the city gave way to the perfume of bacon, eggs and toast. Then she delicately sat at the back door with her tail tucked in, not mewing or making a fuss. While she waited she washed her face, carefully licking her tawny paws and rubbing them over her face. After ten minutes of so Alisha popped out with some garbage, she knew she would. The cat looked up with her amber eyes and watched this slight kitchen worker melt like she did every morning. "Tikki!" she cried, "my sweet, sweet, friend. Let me get you the bacon rinds." After moments she returned with a haul she'd been saving just for her. Tikki ate quickly...
From behind the garbage cans comes two eyes reflecting the sallow street lights, hardly moving despite the high wind that gusts down the New York street. Riley stops and drops a corner of his tuna sandwich; he's tempted out this alley cat before, so long as he doesn't move she can't see him too well. Cars pass with headlights on, moving too fast toward the traffic lights as usual, pounding their brakes suddenly as if the red light is a big surprise. A tortoiseshell paw comes into the light followed by a body so slight she could still be a kitten. On act of bravery fuels another and soon she is eating the tuna just a few inches from his boots. He could grab her but then what? The trust would be broken and his dream of taming her gone.
A large, long furred tom sat in the alley. His eyes were a piercing yellow, his pelt pitch black. He let out a deep growl at the sight on another tom on his turf. Standing up and padding forward, he charged at the second cat, a smaller white and black patched tom. With a swipe of the paw, the smaller tom was yowling in pain and fury. They engaged in a fight though the winner was obvious. After many moments, the smaller cat was sent dashing away, tail between his legs. The large black tom, known as Bronte by many, stood there. Pride flooded him, his chest puffed out.
The small rasping of the alley cat startled me as I strolled through my neighborhood. There it crept from the foliage of the bushes, poor and emaciated. Its orange fur was terribly matted and dirty, and it came to my feet, nuzzling against my black and white Chucks. I threw it the last of the sandwich I was eating and it consumed it quickly, licking it's paws and grooming it's whiskers. I started to walk away but it followed me, continuing that raspy meow that had drawn my attention to it before. I let it follow me however, and knew that this cat was gonna be a very loyal little friend.