Bramblepoint two hundred miles through the deepest dark forest

And to roll to see if he can have Mr. Carrots: 7

Oooh, feisty; Rickshaw's teeth seemed to glean as he snapped after the feline. His pursuit only went so far as the little feline arched up and hissed. It spat, it swatted, it was generally on the defense against him. The grin that stretched the length of his muzzle was comically grotesque, putting all those pearly whites on display as he could not help but wonder what flavor a tiny kitten had. Why, if he could just catch it, it would be a feast worthy of a scavenger such as him, because he didn't have to scavenge for it. Coyotes could hunt too, only Rickshaw tended to avoid it. Buzzards were a problem, or turkey vultures; hell, he didn't know what sort of carrion hung around. Crows, that was his guess.

So in a moment of nonchalance as he seemed to play the deterred card, he formulated his plan to try and catch the wily feline. His steps carried him a few short stomps to the left before turning back to the right, and he whined pitifully as though he were confused. Then, abruptly, the coyote surged forward with jaws snapping, figuring that even if the cat tried to hook him, he could have a tasty meal out of it anyway. It wouldn't hang onto him long if he snapped it in half, right?