Thin as death

A weasel. One of the cats caught it. We heard her shouting about something outside. "Look what I've got!"
It was quite a feat. Weasels are death dealers themselves. Once targeted nothing escapes a weasel; they use their snaky bodies to weave a fatal dance around their prey. They cache their surplus kill for later.
 Nothing eats a weasel, the foetid odour from their musk glands renders them unpalatable. So this one was just a trophy. It diced with death and lost.

'Thin as death' is the first line of a poem Weasel by Canadian poet Patrick Lane.