Lost Creek Hollow cabela's camouflage cup

Glad you are enjoying it hehe!

He succeeded; the small female was pressed into the snow, held beneath him and he gloated with a disturbed grin around the mass of scruff he had seized. He released his hold only to menace her with several other quick bites to her neck and shoulder, a laughing-growl in accompaniment. He did not draw blood; it was not blood he wanted. He shifted himself to square his hips behind her as she cried.

To him, in this dark moment, she was the cat, and the roles had been reversed. He was not the one being overpowered and invaded this time, and it filled him with a sick sense of victory and the thrill of revenge being served.

But then, as he was about to take from her as he had been taken from, he paused, and became the portrait of a statue frozen above her. Something reached him, perhaps her fearful whines, perhaps even the frail sight of her — his companion, dear sweet Ilya — between his paws against her will. Whatever it was, it was like a fine-honed spear, and it pierced through the demented dream with jarring force and speed.

He was sick instantly, and vomitted whatever his stomach held off to the side of her, although some did find her soft black coat. He staggered back away from her, incredible horror writ upon his face. He tried to speak, but his voice was not but a stuttering, raspy noise, S-s-s-s-s— that was cut short by another round of vomitting.

He fled then, as fast as his white paws could carry him he ran, toward the borders of the hollow, and beyond them.