A nameless young narrator seems to be on a quest to strip everything back to the elements and expose herself to nature in all its raw extremity. The first person narrative takes you deep into her psyche, but without the relief of understanding her motives - beyond the need to live life on the edge. At the end, I was keenly affected by the power and darkness of this tiny book - even though it left me comfortless. A curiously compelling experience.
And then, just as I'm starting to think that without food or scavenging experience the cats will either leave or die, it happens. A sudden premeditated onslaught. Relentless. The little assholes resort to the only weapon they have: urine. They piss on the kitchen doormat, in a laundry basket of clean clothes. They piss on the firewood and in the shoes I've left airing out. They tear at the sheets hung out to dry with the same claws they use to scrape dirt over their shit and, when the mood strikes them, piss on those as well.
