The Scent of Raw Meat

The cold scent of raw poultry pulled me straight toward the kitchen. I scrambled up the rungs of a wooden barstool, my claws clattering loudly against the smooth counter laminate. Right there on the grooved cutting board sat a heavy tray of cold chicken, sealed tight beneath clear plastic film. Droplets of pink-tinted condensation pooled along its rim. I dropped low, throat rumbling with a sharp, guttural hiss, before driving a hooked claw straight down into the taut wrapping. The plastic split with a crisp pop. Cold, meaty vapor rushed against my snout, and I locked my tail straight out, claiming the prize as my morning quarry.