Sniper Kitty mans his solitary outpost. Day fades into day, night into night, until time is meaningless, the horizon becomes the only world he knows, and there is only the vigil to define him; the ceaseless waiting for the enemy that may come at any moment — or not at all.
Then he sees it — the foe he has waited an aching eternity to face: The dreaded pen. Instinct grips him now, stoked by the fear that burns in the furnace of his soul, the sickening knowledge that only one may succeed, and one must fail. It is either bat — or be batted.
His prey draws closer. Each second hangs forever in the icy winter stillness. Small sounds echo in his ears now — a faint footstep, a rustling of leaves — speaking to a sense beyond sense, flowing into him, guiding him, telling him when the moment is right …
And then, without warning, he strikes! Channeling all his energy into one focused lunge, with devastating force he … he … heeee reeeeally likes tuna, he thinks. Tuna is delicious. Very tasty, indeed. He could go for some tuna right now, in fact. Because he really, really enjoys tuna. He likes tuna. He likes tuna a lot.
See, this is why cats never won a war, Mark J.