Just after I turn off the downstairs lights I find the cat capering about in a dark corner near the front door, all alone. Or, as I see when I take a step nearer, not quite alone.
On my way upstairs I poke my head into the youngest one’s bedroom, where he and the middle one are playing some kind of computer game.
“Just so you know,” I say, “the cat’s got a mouse trapped by the front door.”
“Dead or alive?” asks the middle one.
“What am I, a doctor?” I say. “I’m going to bed.”
When I come downstairs the next morning, my wife and the middle one are already pondering the obvious question: where is the latest mouse now, and in how many pieces?
“I haven’t seen anything yet,” my wife says.
“He must be stashing them somewhere,” says the middle one.
“Wherever that somewhere is, the bodies will be piling up,” I say.
“And of course you did nothing as usual,” my wife says.
“I let nature take its course,” I say.
“Did anyone check under this rug?” says the middle one, lifting a bare foot.
“I mean, you wouldn’t pull a penguin from the mouth of a sea lion,” I say.
“I’m surrounded by cowards,” my wife says. The cat, which has been fed twice, approaches me, asking to be fed for a third time.
“Where’s your little dead friend?” I say.
“Miaow,” the cat says.
Three mornings later I come down alone and early. As I open the back door, I see the cat crossing the garden towards me. Behind it, sitting perfectly still on the grass, is a pigeon. I don’t know the details of the cat’s most recent interaction with this pigeon, but I can guess.
“Miaow,” says the cat, asking to be fed for the first time.
“Sure,” I say. “Step right in.”
Once the cat is fed I stand outside looking at the pigeon. It stares back, not moving. It looks fine, although it is transparently not fine.
“Please don’t be my problem,” I say, but it is my problem, because the pigeon is sitting on the path to my office shed.
I go back into the kitchen and make coffee. The cat comes over and digs its claws into my leg, asking to be fed for the second time.
“Fine,” I say, refilling its bowl with dry food. I sit down to work at the kitchen table while pondering my next move. The cat exits through the cat flap, heading in the direction of the sitting pigeon.
I get up, go outside, retrieve the cat and lock the flap from the inside. The cat claws at the flap until I shut him out of the kitchen altogether.
I continue to work, occasionally glancing out into the garden. The first time I look, the pigeon is calmly preening itself. Feeling better already, I think. The second time I look, the pigeon is sunk low in the grass, watchful and still. Where, I think, is a sea lion when you need one?
The third time I look, the cat is creeping up on the pigeon from the other side of the garden.
“Hey!” I shriek, bolting out the door. The cat runs off and hides under a bush, but I find it and eventually get hold of it. The cat wriggles and claws at me as I carry it back inside. The middle one is standing in the kitchen.
“He must have got out through an upstairs window,” I say. “He’s after that injured pigeon.” The middle one looks over my shoulder.
“Shouldn’t we help it?” he says.
“I’m monitoring the situation,” I say.
“Can’t you move it?” he says.
“Where am I gonna put a pigeon where a cat can’t get it?” I say. I think: my office. Then: I’m not doing that.
“Take this cat away,” I say, handing it to the middle one. “I have to work.”
On my way out to my shed I stop to look more closely at the pigeon. It regards me with a cold eye, but does not move. I look up at the dark and threatening sky. I think, what about an eagle? Is that too much to ask?
From my office window I continue to evaluate the situation with mounting anxiety. Soon, I think, you must make a decision.
The first time I look back out at the pigeon, it is still sitting in the grass. The second time I look it is still there, but with its head turned the other way.
The third time I look, I see my wife creeping up on the pigeon from behind, preparing to scoop it into an outstretched apron. I think to myself: you did the right thing.
