Now he’s done it. Look what the cat drug in.
Yes, it’s a robin, and it’s dead.
I’m all about cats killing animals, especially of the rodent variety. And I don’t mind at all if they proudly drag those dead carcasses into my garage. And it’s really not so bad that those dead things sit there until I notice them, whereupon the cat proudly rubs against my leg and then eats it.
But robins? No, this is where I draw the line. These lovely birds are a sign of spring! They’re a sign of life! And beauty! They’re one of the first birds to return to the cold, cold North after ten months of winter!
You know what my Grandma Martha used to say about shooting robins, right? (Click HERE for her murderous threats to guns and little boys even thinking of such things.) I wonder what she’d do to this cat?
You bet Strider ate this robin too. But no, not the feathers. They were strewn all over the place. I had to have my son vacuum up his mess. At least with mice and gophers, the whole thing disappears – snouts, tails, guts, and all.