Brian McGilloway: Borderlands

It was nearly the size of a collie, its body compact and hard, its dark fur sleek and shining in the morning light. It was poised to flee, muscles tensed, legs bent, its hard golden eyes trained on me. It considered me for a moment, raising its head slightly to sniff the air. Then it dipped its head again into Frank's food bowl and ate the remains of his dinner from the previous night.

I shifted my gun from one hand to the other, considering whether I had any chance of firing a shot. The cat lifted its head again and looked at me with disdain. The dawn sun was spreading slowly across the lawn now. The animal snarled once, lightly, baring its teeth, then it turned and padded up through the hedgerow and into the field beyond.

During that month, it hunted freely both in the North and the Republic, eluding naturalist and hunter alike, slaughtering livestock with impunity, making the borderland its own.

Then, in the early spring, it disappeared.