If one of my three cats could survive
the wild, it would be her.  
Twinkle is thirteen this year.  He’s forgotten
how to hunt.  Now, bowls of kibble and scraps of chicken
satisfy him.  He wouldn’t make it past the threshold.
Olaf would spook
the second he stepped on a leaf.  There are no beds to hide
under in the great outdoors.  He’s thought of himself as prey 
so long he’s forgotten
what it’s like to be a predator.  
But Jasmine remembers her foremothers were tigresses.

I can see the wildness that lurks in her when she sprints
down the hall after things I cannot see,
when she stares out the window at the squirrels she cannot chase,
when she cheats death and chews phone cords still plugged into the wall, daring
the outlets to electrocute her. 
Maybe she does it for the high, just to prove she can outlive
anything manmade.  Maybe she does it to prove that her sharp teeth can still rip flesh.

I once brought her outside on an Autumn day to admire the leaves.
You might expect a blank look from a cat, but she took in everything,
rapt, enthralled by that untouchable feeling of being truly alive.
If it weren’t for her loyalty to 1212, she would have leapt
from my arms, onto the driveway,
and into the wilderness.
I couldn’t stop her if I tried.

Yes, Jasmine could survive the wild–she is the wild.