My 15-year-old ginger tabby, Angus, has been bringing in bunnies this summer. Somehow, he drags them through the cat door, half dead, then lounges in the front hallway grooming himself while the poor bunny thrashes around trying to escape. Then, he carries the hopeless creature into the bathroom, where he delivers the death bite. As you can see in the above blurry picture, he leaves the carcass on the bathmat, while washing down his meal with a drink from the great white fountain.
He then retires for a restorative snooze on the bed. I don't know how he does it. He's nothing but skin and bones, suffers from kidney ailments, has only three teeth, and I am glad he's no bigger than he is otherwise I'm sure he could take me down with a single crafty and well-timed pounce.
He knows I'm writing about him. I'd better be careful.
P.S. In case any animal lovers out there are concerned, the island is overrun by rabbits. Angus is a hero in my neighbour's opinion.
P.P.S. Angus's exploits have featured in this blog before. I documented his run-in with an eagle in Dorothy Caldwell's Expressive Stitch workshop a few years ago.