When Ginger comes into the lounge meowing I know he's carrying a mouse between his teeth. It's a neat bit of ventriloquism. He's excited and wants to show me what he's got.
Often-times the mouse is alive and he'll gently put it on the floor and watch it stagger about. But before it strays too far he'll catch it again and eventually take it outside to devour. He won't eat the guts, so leaves them for me on the patio to clean away later.
My friend, who has a PHD in the digestive systems of mice, says cats also don't like the gall-bladder, just in case you find one on your own patio.
With this show of brutality Ginger is telling me:
"Look this is how you catch, dispatch and consume a mouse. There are plenty of them in the garden. Now I've shown you, go out and catch your own."
My having not taken the bait, last evening he went a stage further. He caught and killed this poor little thing and then left it by the patio doors for me. It was still there in the morning. I can hear him saying,
"You haven't grasped this, have you? I've caught a meal for you - all you've got to do is eat it. For pity's sake, will you get with the programme and start catching your own. I'm not gonna feed you forever."
I picked up this shredded (used to be a) mouse and buried it in the rose patch.
I'm never going to get it, sorry Ginger. You're gonna to have to provide for me!
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