So, the wee pets came back, not a bother on them, two days later, in fine fettle. Their return was marked by their mother, Pushkin, with a very large, very dead rabbit, which the gang duly demolished. They've become quite sniffy about mackerel heads, which they now scorn in favour of rabbit paws, jaws, and other gory titbits.
Tigger was playing very happily with the rabbit's paw, batting it about, playing catch. Finally Pushkin decided this was trivialising the kill, and ate it. Today it was a tiny shrew that was providing the amusement, and the subject for their co-ordination skills.
What a lesson there is here. Not quite sure what the lesson is, but it has to do with sentimentalising nature. The kittens are adorable. Wee Blondy purrs like an enthusiastic outboard engine. Tigger mewls in the tiniest squeak for his food, even Katya, always the wild one, has become affectionate and cuddleable. But they are killers in the making, and nothing much smaller than a fox is safe when they are on the rampage.
Which we should be thankful for. These are country cats, not urban moggies. They have to work for their keep, killing vermin. They are not being raised as house-cats, so they must also be able to fend for themselves when we are away.
