He drank his coffee—very good. George was crouched low in the grass. At ground level and from the front all that could be seen were eyes and ears. From his elevated vantage, Tom could see him stretched out, back leg muscles coiled to spring, and a straight and rigid tail. Just the tip twitched, an inch back and forth and rhythmically—like a clock pendulum.
“Look Out, Bugs! George has your number!”
George shot him a dirty look.
In the yard, George spied his prey and pounced. As he lovingly dismembered and delicately devoured his fat, sleek, grasshopper sacrifice, the only witness was the sky.
Papa was fast asleep.
(from Alise: chapter 1)