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27 September 2012

and to celetrate that time of the year Thunder caught one. I heard the scuffling and hurried to the rescue to emerge with a handful of greenfinch, short a few feathers and decidedly ruffled. I stroked the feathers back into place while the bird eyed me, apparently unafraid. Cats are scary, people aren’t so bad. I took it out and sat it on top of the big concrete watertank. There was a brief pause while it sorted out events, current freedom, and … it was gone. Flying steadily (so whatever the lost feathers, none had been vital) and no indication of shock or incipient heart attack.

Great. I like the finches and I don’t want any to die here if I can prevent it. Thunder mostly doesn’t mean them to die either. He catches a bird or mouse, he plays. As a byproduct of his games the whatever it was usually dies from shock, but he rarely kills or even injures them intentionally and in all his seven years here he’s only eaten two prey, both mice – which I suspect he damaged in his games so that the scent of blood combined perhaps with early-hours hunger. This year there looks to be more finches than usual, and with nesting season in full swing he may find incautious babies landing in the cat park. I’m staying on the alert.

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