Usually we shut the cat in at night, but last night he shot out into the dark just as I was going to bed, so I left the pet door open and hoped for the best.
This is what the mat in front of my kitchen sink looked like this morning, for the third time in as many days:
Only this time, the bird wasn’t attached to all of its feathers. The bird itself was presented beatifully on the flowered rug at the foot of my bed, as if Jack was posing the bird on the background so he could paint bad wallpaper from the image.
Jackson, my cat, is trying to tell me something. He’s trying to tell me that my attempt to recognize that what I eat comes from real, live animals is falling short of my original goals; my interest in killing a chicken at some point this year just because I feel like I should know what it’s like has been far outweighed by the convenience of buying chicken at the store.
I’ll spare you the photo, which I took from the feathered side.
But for next time: has anyone tasted sparrow, or whatever it was? These birds are going to waste, and from what Jack tells me, they’re nice and fresh.
Oh, and I almost forgot. There was a mouse, too.