The Girl Cat has taken those first simple steps toward becoming a dedicated serial killer, and I know this because the hop of a Grasshopper no longer fills her heart with the intensity of joy it might once have done. She now finds them rather dull, unimaginative, predictable creatures, no match for her wit and hardly worth the energy. The Butterfly Hunt is still good practice, an opportunity to leap into the air in anticipation of maybe one day spreading her own wings so that she might soar among the Owls and the Eagles. Lizards are a minor entertainment, but like the Frogs, there's something remarkably unsatisfactory about them, and they taste horrible.
We indoors are naturally very proud of her as well as a little nervous. By
nature we tend toward a lily-livered soft heartedness that worries about things
like Rabbit blood and internal organs on carpets. There's always the worry the
Girl Cat will discover the fun she can have from bringing a live Mouse into the
domicile, releasing it until one of the other domicile residents hears it, then
sees it and then starts running around as though possessed by the conviction the
world is about to end. And as primary care givers with full responsibility for
the Girl Cat's good health we have to give thought to the dangers of her
randomly sampling improperly prepared foodstuff. Yes indeed, a rich tapestry.