Tiger or Tabby?

Belly to the grass, closer he inches,
Breath is abated. The terrain is still.
Empty except for the nest of finches,
Unknowingly marked by their dulcet trill.
Paws creep forward, shoulders swing,
His rigid gaze burns into the trees.
He is Supreme Slinker-the Prowling King.
The green sea parts bowing in the breeze.
Saliva glistens, paws release scythes.
In fascination, Time forgets to pass,
His prey feel no fear for their lives.
Then, like a demon, he springs from the grass.

Mid leap he pauses, swayed by the yell
Of 'Here Puss!' and the Whiskars Tuna Chunks he can suddenly smell.