She was exhausted, but she needed to hunt again now if her litter was to survive. She crept out of the den to begin her task as she had done so many times before.

Their den was well concealed, but now that they had grown, so had their voices. They were famished, the poor things, so you could hardly blame them for mewing so loudly, but little did they realise the danger in which they put themselves. Only last week a crow had carried off the youngest: she shuddered to think about it.

She knew she would have to take her chances and seek prey at the farmyard again. If she could avoid the dog, the chicks provided easy pickings. She was in luck. It was over in a trice; a flurry of feathers all there was to show for the missing chick’s whereabouts. She hurried back with the meagre fare, eagerly awaited by her hungry offspring. Sharp little teeth ground through soft bone and cartilage, not even the extremities of the unfortunate fowl remaining unconsumed.

As she watched, her heart grew heavy. Endangering herself to provide for them conflicted with her instinct for self-preservation and yet something kept driving her to take greater and greater risks on their behalf. The almost mutually exclusive instincts constantly warred within her, each vying for dominance. Soon, she knew she would leave. Nature is a cruel taskmaster.

Bushytail was always ravenous. The volumes of lizards, mice and birds he was able to catch provided subsistence sustenance only. It also took a lot of energy for Bushytail to catch his prey, resulting in a physique that was both lean and muscular.

Daily, Bushytail faced a myriad of dangers. Larger predators such as foxes were a threat, as were other feral Toms, and then there was the omnipresent danger posed by humans, many of whom, for a variety of reasons, wanted to eradicate feral cats. He had cleverly camouflaged the entrance to his den in a thicket of blackberry bushes to provide himself with a measure of security during his brief sojourns, but it paid to be vigilant at all times.

When Bushytail was a kit, he lived with his mother and siblings, but at a young age he had had to learn the solitary behaviours he now practised. A wild mother cat cannot provide for herself and her kits for very long, but at least she had given him his name, derived from her remembrance of his bushy tail.

Bushytail had only briefly lamented the loss of companionship his family had provided, but oftentimes, when he caught the scent of other cats, he was lonely. When he was old enough and strong enough, he would contest other Toms for territory and have a family of his own, but in the meantime, he would hunt and sleep and bide his time. With each passing day he grew more wily. He became bolder in his quest for food, drawing nearer and nearer human habitation, and reaping the rich rewards these opportunities offered. Soon, he would find his own territory.