Seymour the Wonder Cat watches from the safety of the windowsill and Norman the Naughty Cat sits on the lower roof and ponders her next move. Is it just me, or does Seymour look like he’s planning to sneak down and push her off the roof?
The Brit media is cranking out new reports of the wild cat of Woodchester savaging a deer but I have enough problems of my own with the wild moggies residing in my own home.
Since discovering her hunting gene, Norman has taken it upon herself to perfect her skills on anything and everything, but mostly birds.
I always thought Seymour was a good hunter but even he seems a little bemused by Norman’s efforts.
On Saturday morning, I was awoken by the unmistakable sound of two cats leaping around the bedroom in pursuit of some sort of prey. I sat up, dreading what I was going to find.
All of a sudden there was an loud chirp and a wee birdie, minus several tail feathers, ran under the bed. With Norman in hot pursuit.
Seymour, however, encountered a slight obstacle in his morning hunt: his big furry bum wouldn’t fit under the bed. He was left with just his head under there, his back end sticking out at an odd angle and his stumpy wee tail wagging like that of an excited puppy.
My long-suffering but well-insured husband joined in the fray about then, spotting the bird tucked in beside the valance and grabbing it before Norman could pluck any more of its feathers.
She was unimpressed. She squawked at him, then followed him down the hallway as he took the bird outside. After locking the cat door he checked out the poor little critter, which stunned all involved by giving another chirp then flying away. Its tail looked a tad lopsided but all-in-all, it seemed fine.
However, Norman is still peeved. And she became even more peeved when the bird she appeared with later was also removed from her clutches. And yesterday there were three birds over the course of the day. Today, just the two so far.
Our house is now in a permanent state of feathery-ness, I’m constantly checking my shoes and under my pillow, paranoid about what offerings she might decide to hide (she likes to hide her toys under my pillow, so you never know) and every time we hear the cat door ping, we all tense up in expectation of having to wrestle some poor, bedraggled creature from the jaws of death. Well, Norman.
Tomorrow, I’m buying her a collar. With a bell. And maybe a flashing light. And a siren.