I haven't a clue how it got there. From the looks of things I'd say it easily could have shinnied its way into the thicket and couldn't get out. The brush, after all, was virtually impenetrable; with dagger-like thorns snagging any form of soft tissue. It could have gotten trapped. Or maybe it was injured and was simply looking for a protected place to morph into the next of its remaining lives. All I know is that when I finally cleared away enough of the brush to see beyond the perimeter of the trees I discovered a stiff cat well into the throes of rigor mortis. Since I was, first of all, in the "brush clearing" mode and not the "dead cat clearing" mode; and since I was, second of all, exhausted, I chose to turn a blind eye to this inconvenience in my front landscaping. What could it hurt? Who knows how long it had already been there? Besides, this is the country -- rural life at its most bucolic and natural. Admittedly, dead cats don't usually fit into discussions of aesthetics, but the "natural" part fits. Critters live; critters die. It's "natural."
I'm not ashamed to say, however, how impressed I was this morning -- the day after the aforementioned discovery -- having strapped on my safety goggles and fired up the power trimmer, to find that particular patch of feline mortality...abandoned.
Empty.
Devoid of all but twigs and thorns.
The cat, as it were, was gone.
Now, either there was at least one of those nine lives remaining and I happened upon the cat in liminal transition, or, as I rather suspect, I have simply been a witness to nature's incredible efficiency at cleaning up after itself. Either way, I'm happy to be rid of it. Now, if whatever carried it away would only return and help me get rid of all these trimmings.
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