Vandalism in a poet's garden

 

One of the three rascally kittens who have forcibly taken over a village poet's garden. All the garden lizards are gone, few of them unnecessarily killed for fun, some puked out half digested forcing the poor poet to clear the mess. The squirrels lost all their kids, except one squirrel brat which doesn't dare to come down. One of the rascals is always there under the tree for a non-stop watch. The frogs mauled. They don't eat them, they just play cats and frogs. A new game. A grandfatherly bull frog used to come into the garden from outside, sneaking under the iron gate grills, after the night fell. The village poet saw it usually while having his post dinner walks to and fro like an old retired lion in a cage. The old frog, it looks really old, proved his wisdom when he stopped sneaking into the poet's yard after the dark. But last night it committed a folly. It came in. And one of the rascals had the time of his life with the old gentleman. It hopped like a springbuck and would land on the old frog as it tried to sneak out with its tired gallops. The miscreant would go scampering over the yard and would come jumping like a springbuck with firecrackers tied to its tail and there it would land on the poor frog. Look at the expectations! Wanting playmates after such sins of killing and mauling! At one point they vanished in a bushy corner and weren't seen for many minutes. The helpless poet feared for the frog's life. But they finally came out. The feline nuisance wanted the poor fellow to play with it and do the same. Somehow the frog managed to sneak out after almost 15 minutes of playful cuddling by a cat brat. The birds and nests are gone. The nostalgic poet hears only angry warning cries of birds from surrounding heights alerting one another to avoid the forbidden yard where three killers roam. The rainy season used to be the time when the yard and little garden had many birdie residents allowing the poet to watch many lovely tales of winged parents raising their kids. But this monsoon it happens to be the season of slaughter in the poet's yard. Oofs. And look at the relaxation drenching this hero! The poet wants nagraj, the big old cobra that stays in the messy clump of trees, grass and bushes right in front of the gate, to sometimes pay a visit and teach them a lesson. Nagaraj's hooded hiss will see them tumbling over in fear and maybe wet and soil their pants.