Cold-blooded murder

Castor and Pollux, my now ten-month-old black cats, are so cute and cuddly and loving that I tend to forget one important fact.

Cats are predators.

All five of my previous cats, over the many years that I had them, occasionally brought a mouse or small bird, dead or alive, inside the house for my inspection and approbation.  I gritted my teeth each time, and learned to live with it.  But, in contrast with my earlier cats, my Gemini boys are wild, crazy teenagers (in cat years).  The night is full of game.    And they love to hunt.

They have developed a habit of sleeping all day and staying out all night.  I feel like a human parent who sees his teenaged sons only at mealtime.

My cats don't hunt because they're hungry, of course.  Domestic cats rarely do.  They hunt for sport, with the same stomach-turning joy as does Jared Kushner -- the jerk who stands proudly, grinning at the camera over a dead elephant.  Over the past few weeks, they've brought me two tiny birds -- one dead, the other dying -- and a tiny rabbit so small that I mistook it at first for a large mouse.

These were just warm-up exercises.  This morning I woke up with Castor working over a struggling robin beside my bed.  The robin was still alive, barely, and I took him outside to an out-of-the-way, brushy area of my back yard.  I knew he wouldn't live, but I figured that I should at least give him a chance.  A couple of hours later, Castor returned with the now dead robin and deposited it triumphantly on the living room floor.

I discovered not only feathers beside my bed, but in great profusion in the guest bedroom, where my brave Castor had apparently attempted to administer the coup de grace before bringing his trophy to my bedside.  I got even with the cats (Pollux was actually innocent of this particular outrage) by dragging out the vacuum -- the very sight of which caused them to dash for the cat door.

A final curious incident to wrap up this depressing story.  I later heard a crow cawing its head off in front of the house.  I went outside and discovered Castor sitting in the yard, looking unconcerned, and the crow frantically yelling at him from the top of a tree.  I led Castor inside, and the cawing stopped immediately.  I later discovered a huge mound of robin feathers, directly under the crow's tree.  The protracted murder itself had happened hours earlier, but apparently had begun with an attack at this very spot.  

The crow, acting as prosecutor or district attorney, had discovered the scene of the crime, and was shouting "J'accuse!" at Castor -- demanding the cat's confession and punishment.  

Castor shrugged.  "I couldn't help it," he muttered.  "It's my nature."