There’s this certain meow cats have, you may have heard it. It’s persistent, a little shrill – a staccato chirruping crying kind of meow. You don’t want to hear it at 2am on a stormy morning.

It is the call of the mighty hunter, proudly bringing the prey back to his family.

It would be different if the fat git had managed to bring down a gazelle or a bewilderedbeast or something. But it’s somewhat depressing when the bounty is a small water-logged bird, still not old enough to have all its feathers, obviously blown from its nest. Easy pickings for the great orange one, who made me get out of bed to let him in, dumped the bird on the rug, growled at Fizzgig then watched quietly as I picked the poor thing up and put it outside.

Of course it didn’t survive the night, but at least it didn’t meet its end in Bee’s cavernous maw. It would have died even if he hadn’t brought it in, but at least I wouldn’t have known about it and been sad.

So pointless.