Whiskers the Provider

Whiskers was not one to wait around when his belly rumbled. Nor did he sit idly by when his human—Mommy, as she was affectionately called—muttered about forgetting to go grocery shopping again. The cupboards had been opened, closed, and sighed at. The fridge door had been stared at as if it might magically produce dinner. And finally, Mommy had sat down on the couch with a mug of broth and declared, “We’re foraging tonight, Whiskers.”

Foraging? Whiskers knew foraging. He was a feline. A hunter. A master of mouse and moth. He had once caught a beetle the size of a walnut and proudly presented it. Tonight, he would do it again. For both of them.

The back door creaked open, letting in the smell of cool air and leaves. The catio stood ready—Whiskers’ fortress, jungle, and observation post.

He stepped into it with purpose.

The catio was a structure of wire mesh, old wood, and dangling fleece toys that had seen better days. It wrapped around the back corner of the house and was lined with plants, scratching posts, and furniture that had been claimed long ago by claw and fur.

Whiskers crouched low. His eyes gleamed. His ears flicked independently, searching the breeze for clues.

A rustle near the planter box.

Whiskers darted forward, nose quivering.

Mint. Not food. But Mommy liked it.

He bit off a few leaves and carried them carefully to the door. He dropped them onto the welcome mat as if they were a gift.

“Step one: garnish,” he thought.

Back into the catio.

A flutter.

A moth, fat and slow, bounced lazily under the eaves.

Whiskers leapt. Swatted. Caught.

Success.

He paraded the moth back to the door, setting it next to the mint with flair. It twitched once. Then stopped.

Whiskers sat proudly. His tail curled in satisfaction.

Inside, Mommy glanced at the glass.

“Oh, Whiskers. Not the mint again.”

But she didn’t move to open the door. Instead, she curled deeper into her blanket.

Whiskers understood. She was waiting. For more.

Back in the catio, he launched up to the top shelf, where the old crate gave him a full view of the yard.

Movement near the far corner.

A squirrel? No. Too fast. Gone before he could blink.

But there—beneath the feeder—crumbs. Seeds. And behind that, something better.

A mouse.

Whiskers froze.

The mouse sniffed, twitched, and hopped forward. Whiskers moved like a shadow, silent and measured.

One step. Two.

Pounce.

A squeak, then silence.

He held it gently in his teeth, careful not to ruin the presentation.

Back to the mat.

The mint.

The moth.

The mouse.

A feast.

Inside, Mommy opened the door.

“Oh, buddy. What... what is this?”

She crouched. Picked up the mint. Wrinkled her nose at the moth. Paused at the mouse.

Whiskers meowed, proud.

“For you,” he meant.

Mommy smiled. Not the big kind. The tired kind.

She reached out, scratched his chin.

“You’re a good boy.”

She left the mouse. Took the mint. Closed the door.

Whiskers blinked.

He wasn’t done.

He prowled the catio until the stars peeked through the mesh above.

A beetle. A slug. Another moth. All gathered. All offered.

As he waited, Whiskers began to wonder—how did Mommy ever manage before he came along?

She was hopeless at hunting. Her paws were slow, her claws dull. She had no instincts. When she was hungry, she either waited for food to appear in bags or complained to a glowing box with a voice.

She couldn’t even catch a fly. He had seen her try. It was pitiful.

Whiskers sighed. Humans were fragile things. Soft. Upright. Clumsy. They needed cats.

He was her provider now. Her guardian. Her hunter.

He had a code, after all. The Hunter’s Code:

Bring food when the humans forget.

Kill quickly and present gently.

Always act like the mouse was harder to catch than it was.

Accept praise with quiet dignity.

Never trust squirrels.

That last rule had been added after the incident with the planter box and the missing sunflower seeds.

Tonight, Whiskers would follow the code.

And then he heard it.

A rustle. A thump. A clicking sound.

Not prey.

A rival.

From the shadows emerged a pair of eyes. Glinting. Bold. A neighborhood possum, fat and slow but confident.

It waddled under the feeder, nosed the crumbs, and glared up at Whiskers with beady challenge.

Whiskers arched his back.

He did not hiss. Not yet.

The possum stared.

Whiskers stepped onto the crate platform, silhouetted in moonlight.

He made a noise deep in his throat—not a growl, but a warning.

The possum blinked. Scratched its belly.

Then, with calculated insult, it took a single seed from the feeder base and chewed it slowly.

War.

Whiskers launched down, hit the mesh with a bounce, and thundered toward the intruder.

The possum squealed, scrambled over a loose plank, and vanished into the dark.

Whiskers sniffed the area. The plank led to a corner where the mesh had bent outward slightly, just enough for a determined possum to squeeze through. He pawed at it. It flexed but held.

“Too low for a human to notice,” he thought. “Too small for me to escape—but just wide enough for a thief.”

That was why he couldn’t leave, but the possum could enter. The barrier worked in one direction. Whiskers made a mental note to alert Mommy, in the way only a cat could, by repeatedly sitting near it, until she eventually noticed.

Victory.

Whiskers returned to the mat. Head high. Tail straight.

He had defended the offering. Upheld the code. Fed the pride.

Mommy didn’t open the door again. But the porch light stayed on.

Whiskers curled up beside the mat, guarding the feast.

When dawn came, and Mommy stepped out with a bag and gloves, she looked down and whispered, “Still trying to feed us both, huh?”

She cleaned the mat, patted his head, and dropped a few pieces of turkey from her sandwich.

Whiskers ate, content.

Hunting was love.

And he was overflowing with love.