I’m quite astonished. My ghast is well and truly flabbered.
Our cat Biddy is fifteen years old, give or take. She’s as thin as a xylophone, scraggy in the extreme and missing one of her teeth. She usually divides her day between sleeping on the bed, sleeping in a patch of sunlight in the lounge, sleeping on the sofa and begging for bits of ham out of the fridge.
I was working upstairs this afternoon when Jamie shouted me. I trotted downstairs and heard a low and ominous growling coming from under the chair. Biddy had a sparrow in her mouth that was as big as her head, dripping blood and guts and leaving a trail of feathers through the house. I waited until she dropped the unfortunate creature on the mat so I could scoop it up in a plastic bag, check it was actually dead (yes, well and truly) and dispose of it in the wheely bin.
Biddy is now sat on the arm of the sofa, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth except for the tell tale splatter of blood on her identity tag. Looks like there is life in the old mog yet …