I have cats. Every so often I have to live with the guilt that they kill the local wildlife.
I have cats. Every so often I have to live with the guilt that they kill the local wildlife. It's usually one of the mice breeding in the compost heaps or a blue-tit fledgling. The main hunter is the black and white one; lovely and soft and over-exuberant with his cuddles, but a rascal who fights with his sister, and the neighbours' moggies and who is not one bit daunted by the local foxes. He has a collar with warning bell, but he manages to lose it occasionally. I buy another and its keeps the children and the local pet-shop owner happy.
But could he have been responsible for the latest corpse? A swift! Unlike the usually trophies, it was not presented just outside the back door, nor left half eaten in the kitchen. It was dumped, half buried, in the soil of one of the garden beds.
We have a regular gang of these fantastic birds wheeling about in the sky far above us, but they never come down low into the garden, nor do they ever perch on the fences or even the clothes line. I can't really envisage even the most agile of felines being able to capture such a fleet bird. In fact I can't imagine anything being able to catch one. It's a mystery.
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