stare out of windows, checking the boundaries checking the boundaries. They have territories to protect, circling from the backs of sofas to front doors, to kitchens, whole worlds held in their flat eyes. Postmen breach defences, dropping offerings to be bitten, ripped and pissed on. Straining to a point always just in front of their noses, the click clicking of bicycle wheels tricking them into the frenzy of a chase for the white scut of a rabbit. Unceasingly they scout crowded horizons for what is not there, will never be there.