This morning, I was lying in bed, petting my purring and sweet and innocent acting cat Finchley (he even licked my chin!) as I usually do before I get up in the morning and when I turned over I noticed what appeared to be an explosion of black, all over our bedroom floor. In the days of Buster, we were used to waking up to destruction (the garbage everywhere, India Ink all over him and our white couch...)but since living in London, we haven't had that experience. Without my glasses, I couldn't tell what it was, so I woke up Jim, who also is blind and couldn't tell what was going on, on our floor. Finally, I followed the trail of black (which turned out to be feathers) to a small, dead bird in the corner of the room. Finchley was looking quite proud of himself and also like he might be interested in picking up the bird and taking it to an undisclosed location, so I removed him from the room and Jim did the dirty task of picking the dead bird up in a trash bag. If Kate's cats didn't do this on a regular basis, I would have been as horrified as Jim was. (His response: "GROSS!!! Well...at least it's not a pigeon.")
Sigh. I guess our cat is a blood thirsty killer who is living the dream. Poor little bird. From now on Finchley will be closely monitored as he comes in and out of the house.
