Dead birds

The cat has long been a formidable hunter of winged wildlife that happens to visit our property. Ever since we have had a cat, we have had more fruit on our trees, as the winged wildlife know to stay away. The cat catches rats and mice too, occasionally leaving us gifts like a severed head in the kitchen.

The dog seems to have caught some bad habits from the cat. He has caught rats for a long time, but this week he caught some kind of large bird – a pigeon perhaps – it might have been a hadeda, but there was no beak. Having caught it, he ate it (somewhat) and threw it up all over the garden.

So today just before lunch I was in the kitchen and the wife was outside. I called to her with that voice that you use when your child has just deposited something stinky where it won’t easily wash out. “There’s a dead bird in here.”

“Oh no!” she cried, and rushed over to have a look. “Where is it?”

I showed her. She threw up here hands in despair. There, in the slow cooker, right where she had left it, was the dead bird: a chicken. (I should mention that when we had been married for a year or so, she got anti-glare glasses. They didn’t work.)

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