Saturday morning when I came down to breakfast, we had the following scene:
Michael (dancing around the floor and pointing): The cat has got a dead bird, the cat has got a dead bird.
Mr. Waffle (not looking up from the paper): Really, well fancy that.
Me: Eeek, dead bird, dead bird, dead bird.
Mr. Waffle (leaping from the table): Bloody hell (or words to that effect).
To the cat’s intense chagrin, he removed the corpse from her clutches and put it in the bin. All weekend, we’ve been finding tiny, downy, baby bird feathers under the presses. The killer in our midst doesn’t care.
Regular readers may recall that the cat has been put on a diet. She’s fighting back.
