After yesterday's post I'm looking for a loaded shotgun myself or maybe even a ball peen hammer. Coming downstairs I see The Bastard Fred playing with a piece of something on the hall floor, a wine cork maybe, or a piece of dried grass? No. A dead wren. We had a wren's nest this year in an old rusting piece of farm machinery and now there is one less wren in the world. Sometimes I hate cats.
Update: Once again I got it wrong. I didn't examine the corpse very closely and judged it on size. The little bird was a goldcrest. Bert is fit to be tied.
3 comments:
My cat used to bring the oddest "trophies" home...
One of the reasons I'm not a cat person. It's a bit funny as all my friends cats love me. There is no accounting for taste.
Apparently, cats being the contrary bastards they are, they enjoy bestowing their (pretend) affection on those that dislike them. Fred had a thrush yesterday morning. I could see in Bert's face that he wanted to shoot him.
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