Cht'thschs, whom the hairless two-leggers call Meowsers, waits patiently in the bushes. Cht'thschs is coiled, watching the Enemy frolic. This time, there can be no escape. This time, Cht'thschs has a plan.
     Pulling herself forward, paw over paw, she approaches the enemy silently. The bush does not shake, she does not scratch the ground. This day, the Enemy will know defeat. Once she is within six inches of the Enemy, only the leafy camoflage of the bushes separating them, Cht'thschs prepares her weapons. She flexes her paws and prepares for the battle ahead. The Enemy does not seem to notice.
     Cht'thschs tenses, prepared to dispense death. In a swift, liquid motion taking less than a quarter of a second, too fast for the hairless two-leggers to see, she leaps, crashing out of the bushes and into the Enemy.
     It flaps its horrible feathery leg, trying to fly, but she keeps her jaws locked in a death-grip. The Enemy, sensing its defeat, slows its useless flapping. Cht'thschs now brings her claws down onto its heaving body, rending flesh. The Enemy, its neck crushed and its body badly beaten, finally gives up.
     Cht'thschs devours what little meat she can. Just as she is finishing and considering retiring for the afternoon, another Enemy lands nearby, eyeing her cautiously while scratching for edibles in the grass.