Francis in the sun

Hannibal lives.

He is a cat.

He is a cat living in my house.

He goes under the false identity of Francis, sweetest boy cat known to humanity. The disguise is almost perfect. To look at him you would not know that beneath that exterior of soft gleaming black and white fur beats the heart of a murderer... Francis, sorry, Hannibal, purrs on command, headrubs his humans, spends time with them on their laps making them feel special as he allows them to stroke his soft fur.

But today the disguise has finally slipped.

Outside my office window I have bird feeding-stations. Mesh tubes filled with nuts, high off the ground away from predators, but within my sight as I tap away at the computer keyboard. The sight and sound of birds fills my day! Today Francis, sorry, Hannibal, was sat on the windowsill when two unsuspecting blue tits landed on the feeding station outside. The disguise slipped quickly. Francis, sorry, Hannibal tried to stay in control by just looking at the birds, stony faced. His concentration failed and it was too much to have such tempting morsels only inches away behind the double-glazing. Hannibal emerged and the friendly feline I used to know slipped away before my very eyes. The teeth bared - the face etched into a rictus grin. The teeth chattered and the cold slurping noise echoed around the room.

I understood the fear Jodie Foster felt. Am I safe in my own home?

Copyright © Helen Simmons
April 18, 2000