On the Prowl

Dreams of Africa raced through Bismarck's head; whether they be fond remembrances of the homeland of large felines or nightmares about the Continent's colonization by the Prussian Army, no outside observer could tell you. What they could tell you, though, was that whatever Bismarck was thinking about, he was thinking about it intently. The stringy hairs in his ears were on edge; similar to the way that the stringy bark cased the edge of the Yucca. Together they--the hair in Bismarck's ears and the bark of the Yucca--stood as the battlements of "The Yard."
Bismarck waited in the shadows, his eyes forming slits. These were ways of concealing himself. From the sun. Which shone brightly as a damn headlight. If that headlight happened to be a ten times larger and consisting of superheated gases.
Finally, Bismarck saw a threat. It was large and umber and hairy. And it walked and called out in a loud voice! Bismarck made a move to jump and claw the thing but a hand suddenly stopped him "Don't attack the UPS man!" Max said taking his book Bowling for Dummies from the intruder.
Bismarck scoffed as only a cat could and made his way back to the ramparts (a series of shrubs next to a serene little footpath). He proceeded to wait patiently but alertly. So alertly, in fact, that when we closed his eyes a series of gophers slid easily past.
Alas this was nothing for two hours and forty fight minutes later Bismarck finally found what he was looking for. A little black body, winged and vile made its way haphazardly through the air. It whirred in a self satisfied manner, thinking itself graceful and in tow with the universe (a serenity easy to achieve if one's lifespan is no more than three days). Bismarck meanwhile abhorred the buzzy beast's arrogance. He got to his feet, arched, his back, and sprung, brining the little villain under his paws and out of this world. He looked up at Max pleased with himself. Max gave him the thumbs up. And then he gave him pieces of chicken, of which Bismarck the great hunter was eminently deserving.

The Science of Bismarck's Sleep

"Alright, here's what you do. You stay away from grains and sugars at least two hours beforehand. Gluten is a killer. Also, you eat avocados and..."
"Don't forgot the part about LED lights."
"I was going to get to that."
"It seemed like you were just going to keep talking about food."
"I don't just talk about food you know."
"That's not the way it seemed."
Dipshit One rolled his head scornfully. He was exasperated by Dipshit Two. Just then Dipshit Three entered wearing a jaunty smile.
"Fellows," he said jollily, "all these rituals they aren't the most important thing. What is most fundamental is belief. One must be committed to the idea that he will fall asleep."
"Or she," interrupted Dipshit Four.
"Or she," acknowledged Dipshit Three.
He raised his hands didactically. "You see what most people lack is conviction, a determination to fall asleep. If they fail it is of their own volition, in reality it can be attributed to their own lack of resolve."
Dispirit One rolled his eyes. "Conviction has nothing to do with whether you are have gas," he said. "Or should we just determine that from now on we will all stifle all farts."
Dipshit Two quivered fearfully. He shook the words from his mind and out of his mouth. "You never stifle a fart. You know what could happen, you could cause series intestinal damage. I read it somewhere, I don't remember where but I read it, probably a science magazine."
Dispirit Three looked on with skeptical eyes. "I have read all the science magazines," she said, "and they say no such thing. What we call gas is in its truest sense a string of chemical reactions wherein..."
"Ha," snorted Dipshit Four. "You all forget that we are spiritual beings, all these physical principles amount to nothing when superseded by the prerogatives of a strong, steely will. Let me show you something." Dipshit Four proceeded to lay down and force himself to slumber. It took all his determination of spirit not to evidence the others his unremitting consciousness.
Just then Bismarck walked in. He sauntered a little bit, looked around, licked his paws and but, and then put his head down. Immediately he was asleep. The four others chose to think otherwise and continuing arguing amongst themselves until eventually they died.

Bismarck Sees the Light

Bismarck cast about languidly in the morning shadows, burdened still by the desolation of night. It was six o'clock in the morning and like darkness the cold continued to permeate the living room, sweeping up within its brittleness all sense of hope or expectancy. Last night Bismarck had been denied access to his human's room. A closed door had confronted him like a cold shoulder, denying him the body warmth that was besides Friskies Surfing' & Turfin' Favorites his main form of sustenance.
It was at this point that Bismarck tried to get beyond himself. He closed his eyes and attempted to achieve an out of body experience. He imagined himself immense, extending beyond the bounds of the room. But sight was not his most poignant sense. The cacophonous smells of kitty litter and formerly burned incense brought him back to reality. Wistfully, he cast about for a warm lap to sit on, finding only a lap top and the remnants of thermal energy it had once radiated. It gave him the idea to sit on the radiator, which led naturally to the idea of jumping five feet in the air, his hair standing on edge.
By the time this was all over it was 6:04 and circumstances were no different than they had been four minutes previously, the only addition being a mournful awareness of time's insensitive existence.
It was then that Bismarck realized he was a cat. Or because he was a cat he didn't so much as realize as let it be. He saw the train of thought, recognized for what it was and simply let it be, pawing it when it occasionally met his fancy but otherwise letting it be. All of a sudden it was 8:30 and the light came beaming down through a northern facing window. Bismarck went to it and lay. He stifled the impulse to ruminate and allowed the earth to simply illuminate. And in this way he realized the true value of being a cat.

Bismarck in the World of Katmandu

Bismarck floated gently into the world of sleep landing with a soft, nestling thump atop a gently curving hill. It was the middle of summer and the Dutch Elms lolled softly in the wind. Bismarck yawned softly, stretching his fur against the pleasant, sun-warmed bristle of the grass. He readjusted and purred and prepared for an extensive sleep. His eyes were half closed when he felt a rousing hiss. He leaped up, prepared. Or at least he had thought he had been.
Dozens of multi-colored cats surrounded Bismarck's position on the hill, eyeing him maliciously, their stances aggressive and their little jaws hardened. For several moments they just starred silently like rain clouds prior to an impossibly sudden downpour.
At last a large white siamese cat with a black face oozed its way towards Bismarck's position. Bismarck arched his back and bared his teeth but the siamese didn't flinch. He sauntered over with the air of a imperious magistrate come to bear judgement. The will of the cats around Bismarck manifested in  an eerie darkness. All at once the Dutch Elm was leafless and its swaying violent and brittle. The Winter had descended upon the hill like the eye of a tornado.
Bismarck communicated with a flicker of his eye that he didn't want any trouble but the eyes of the Siamese lay blank and bare. Bismarck's flicker became more of a pleading flutter but again the Siamese gave nothing away, his eyes not so much looking at Bismarck as through him, like an impenetrable laser. Bismarck made what he thought was a subtle movement towards his right, away from the Siamese. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed a counter adjustment by the circle of cats on his right, ever closer to him. Trying to breath, he made a movement back to center but the newly imposed line of confinement did not breach. All around him the cats proceeded to tighten the noose. It was just about when Bismarck was ready to let caution into the wind and lash out that the words of the Siamese entered Bismarck's head.
"You don't belong here," the Siamese said in a frightfully thin voice, "what do you in the Kingdom of Katmandu?"
Bismarck hesitated. "I was going towards India and made a wrong turn I guess," he mustered. The Siamese did not laugh or blink or open its mouth. It simply stood there. It was about this time that Bismarck realized that the Siamese was not meowing its communication. Rather, the words just seemed to enter Bismarck's head spontaneously and without observable forewarning, the way that bacteria might infect milk. None of said substance was offered to Bismarck as might custom in most alternate worlds. The darkness thickened.
An orange tabby with red eyes approached the Siamese. "We best get him to master," it croaked, "ask master what he intends for him."
The Siamese swiped at the tabby drawing blood across a thin red slash on the cat's nose. The orange tabby sunk back and whinnied. "I mean not to have offended, my Lord." He sunk to all fours in supplication.
The Siamese looked turned its gaze back to Bismarck. This time there was a little fire in its eyes, the sort that quietly breaks through midnight darkness and spells doom for a village of Middle-Ages peasants. "What to do with you," it thought aloud, its words burning blackish red...