It's Not OHS!

I was so unhappy last night. I ignored the cat, telling him he was a horrible pigeon slayer. He knew something was up. He sat there eyeballing me appealing with his golden orbs, and eventually I let him jump on my lap, but I wouldn't stroke him. I kept telling him was a bad cat. He tried to rub noses but I told him I didn't want him breathing Open Heart Surgery's last dying breath on me.

Yesterday evening I threw out more crumbs but the only pigeons to appear were two spruce newcomers with no distinguishing features other than their impeccable plumage and lack of injuries. This morning I threw out more, hoping against hope that OHS might swoop down from a tree and land with a thump on the lawn. (He's a very overweight pigeon.) There was a near miss when a pigeon with a splodge on its chest appeared, but it wasn't him. My heart was in my boots. Well, that time of morning it was my slippers.

Then, around 11am, I turned to see a familiar and much lamented sight. There was OHS, large as life, waddling down the lawn towards the nearest chunk of very expensive seeded bread. Oh, the relief.

"You spent all evening chastising that poor, innocent cat," my partner said.

"He wasn't innocent. He did eat somebody," I reminded him. (The local butcher had happened to drop by while the carnage was going on. Even he, though used to split and bloody carcases, muttered "Yuk," and averted his eyes from the revolting sight.)

I shall now go and sweep up the fluffy grey feathers, and will never know which of the flock went down the cat's throat yesterday. And the wretched feline still had the cheek to beg for his dinner!