Sharon and I are feeding next doors 3 cats whilst they are on holiday this week.
This afternon, when I walked through the door I thought I'd discovered the remains of an over exhuberent pillow fight.
The door to the living room was ajar and grey white feathers lay on the floor suggesting a scene of carnage just around the corner. As I walked into the room the 3 cats looked up. 2 seemed to have a look of guilty shock, teenagers caught doing something they shouldn't. The third, the youngest, sneered at me.
Below him was the fitfull body of a large pidgeon, obviously not quite dead. He grabbed the bird by its neck and heedless of it's weight, sprinted across the room trailing reathers and blood. It took me nearly 10 minutes to convince him to loose the body.
I tend to think of myself as not overly sentimental but I hope I never have to put an animal out of its misery with my bare hands ever again. I can't believe how hard I found it.
It reminded me why I don't particularly like cats.
