The hunting of the shrew

A few weeks ago, Darty brought in a shrew.

We said thanks and cooed over him, which was maybe a mistake.

Because the next day, he brought in a field mouse.

We told him we didn’t need it, we had plenty of food thanks.

But he didn’t listen. That night, he brought us a small bird, a wren maybe.

It was pretty shredded, so it was kind of hard to tell.

The following two days, hunting must have been thin on the ground.

All we got was clumps of leaves, proudly deposited on the kitchen floor.

We felt guilty about the wildlife murders after reading a news story about it.

That night, Darty brought us a rat and we didn’t feel so bad.

And at least the rat was dead. Unlike the wood pigeon he dragged through the flap.

We managed to release that one back out into the night.

We struggled to believe that he actually caught the squirrel.

It was probably already dead when he found it. There’s a strange comfort in that.

He was extremely proud of the rabbit, though.

It was halfway through the flap when Darty woke us, yowling just after midnight.

Anyway, we’re getting a little worried now.

Because, you know, the neighbours have a chihuahua.