The roof cats were fighting. Or dancing. Waking to the noise, hearing it dream-twisted before she opened her eyes and cleared her ears enough to sort out the pattern of it in the hush of early morning, it was hard to tell the difference.
It was mostly just enthusiastic thumping: heavy paws on a thin roof, with the occasional full body slam that made her blink and – she imagined – shook the ceiling. The accompanying yowls were light, swelling in time with the heaviest, thundering steps, but staying mostly lyrical. It was hard to imagine the lithe little predators making that much noise, but they seemed gleeful about it.
And she couldn’t imagine why anything would rouse itself for a duel at dawn.
Dancing, she decided.
It was the same decision she made most mornings she heard them scrambling on the roof, because she didn’t want to calculate the portents for a day she woke up directly beneath a cat fight.