She trotted up to the screen door a bird wedged into her mouth.
"Well done! Good girl. That's our Flea Bag." My voice rises to a sickly condescending tone. We have to congratulate her, she's being a good cat bringing home something dead. It is part of her nature.
She throws the bird up. It lands with a light thud and doesn't move.
Picking it up with a curved paw she tosses it upward again, jumping with it this time. I don't know if she's playing with it like she does with her bouncy ball inside the house or if she is trying to remove the feathers so she can feast.
Wack, up it flies over her head. She follows it with a quick switch around.
Five minutes later I have my answer. Her teeth find their way to be buried into the unflinching bird and she is munching away.
"Good Flea Bag. No tuna for you today."
I know all that will be left is the head, some feathers and a bit of the gut at the back door for mum to clean up.