It was coming up close to 9pm, I was upstairs, chatting to my eldest son about homework, the teenage years and I was on a flow.
Like I was, in a rare moment, nailing parenting. He was getting all the good shit – I was making a difference.
Then a howl cut through the air, stinging my ears, making my heart miss a beat.
It was my daughter, my thirteen year old little girl, who was either being murdered or Tom Holland had just walked through the door.
I favoured the first option and ran down the stairs, my fist raised, ready to crucify anyone who dared to harm a hair on my child’s head.
I found her, stood on the dining room table, face white, legs shaking, knuckles white.
She pointed silently towards the sofa.
“He has brought a bird in….”
For fecks sake, my heart resumed its normal pattern and my fists unclenched as I looked for our six month old kitten who was no doubt keen to show off his latest kill.
“It is still alive.”
To emphasis this point I suddenly heard a death bed chirp from the creature that was indeed clamped between my innocent kittens teeth.
The kitten launched towards me, spilling bird guts all over my best LVT flooring, he was clearly eager to launch his mauled prey into my arms – so I joined my daughter on the dinner table.
Thing is – what do you do with a semi alive bird and a murdering kitten.
It was a team effort, involving a mop, a broom, and a tea towel, and using an enormous feat of strength we coaxed, bullied and forced the killing machine out of the house, into the garden, with its dinner still clamped between his jaws.
Silence fell in my house, only the feathers and the blood were evidence to the brutality that had just taken place.
Then we heard it…
then slightly fainter, and significantly more pained…
The bird was clinging to life, like I cling onto some size 10 jeans in my wardrobe. Pointless, but it was trying to stay in the world.
I knew what I had to do.
Reluctantly and armed with a packed of dreamies, I approached the murderer.
Seeing the treats, he licked his whiskers and strutted towards me, flippantly tossing the body to one side with an air of nonchalance.
Striding into the house, he gobbled down his treats and purred contentedly.
The bird body lie outside, motionless.
With a heavy heart I scooped it up with a dustpan and brush, and deposited it ironically in a bag for life.
I walked back towards the bin, which was to mark his final resting place.
Then I heard it….
The cat must have shared its nine lives with its victim, because this bird didn’t want to pass over. Peering inside the bag it was like looking at an extra from Pet Semetary. Both wings were broken and I could see the inside of his guts, but yet he carried on chirping at me.
It was like he was asking for help.
So I knew what I had to do.
I grabbed my car keys, and hurried to the car, gently holding the bag.
Then I laid the bag behind my wheel, jumped into the car, shed a tear and hit reverse.
The guilt is mine to live with.
The cat is a murdering bastard.
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