Pickle, my cat, is making me laugh a lot at the moment. She’s never been out before this summer so the world outside the window is something new and wonderous. I keep hearing plaintive meows and either I look out of the window or she jumps in looking half terrified as she drops something living from her mouth.
Now considering my friend was moaning recently about finding live pigeons in her house thanks to her flatmate’s cat, I think I have it lucky. Pickle only seems able to catch moths and butterflies, which I then have to liberate as she tries to get them to play with her.
The first time it happened I was disturbed from watching TV by a strange mumbled crying from the cat. I turned round to see her looking scared half to death with two white wings coming out of her mouth. It seemed she’d eaten a moth but didn’t know what to do next. Miraculously, the moth survived (well, out the door, at least – it probably died of shock moments later) .
Yesterday I spent about half an hour putting a grasshopper out the door, only for the damned cat to go and bring it in again. Each time the animal was ever so slightly worse off until, eventually, it died after Pickle batted it one last time, then carried on playing with it until she got bored with its lack of movement.
I feel slightly guilty of course. I’ve just found the corpse and will have to dispose of it shortly.
Only being able to cope with things of that size and being so apparently terrified of them doesn’t put Pickle off bigger ambitions – we’ve got loads of seagulls (the really big, noisy buggers) pestering our street at the moment. She sits there making the most bizzarre clicking noises at them and I wouldn’t be surprised if, one day soon, she jumps through the window dragging one of them behind her. I suspect, however, I’m more likely to look out the window and see her being carried off to a nearby roof.
That’ll learn her.