Hilary’s cat had a bell.
He was a proud cat. Arching his tail, he held himself tall. His fur was magnificent, black, with a hint of white. He looked as if he had donned a dinner jacket, and was ready to hit the tiles.
But he had a bell.
Hilary made him wear it, to spare the birds. They would hear his tinkling approach, make their excuses, and flee.
He hated the bell.
It tamed him, so Hilary thought. Her cat was wild. It tamed his nature that was both Jekyll and Hyde, both softy and slayer.
The bell was good for him.
Hilary’s cat disagreed. He had a job to do, policing the neighbourhood. The bell hindered him.
The bell was here to stay.
Until one day. He announced his presence with a muffled yap, but no tinkling bell. The worst was yet to come.
For whom the bell tolls.
Hilary’s cat had left a trophy: a little blackbird. Its neck had been broken: a clean kill. Its feathered body lay in state in the sitting room, its golden beak pointing resolutely towards the kitchen, and the cat flap.
If only it had been saved by the bell.
A little something I submitted for a one word challenge (Bell). The story could only be 200 words long. Thanks for reading!