Late again. She's getting pretty upset.

"You come in late. You just walk in without any explanation in the small hours and think you can crawl into bed with me without so much as an apology." That was the accusation that met me last night when I popped back through the cat flap after a night's hunting. I've noticed her saying much the same to Ronnie too. It's a habit of human females.
OK so it was little late - 3 am. I just hadn't realised the time. I was having such an exciting time hunting rats in the old piggery down the farm track. Time flies when you're having thrills. It's not the caterwauling female cats out there that make me stay up late. Hunting I love but love I laugh to scorn, as the bard said - more or less. Celia thinks, with Dr Johnson, that "it is very strange and very melancholy that the paurciy of pleasure should persuade us ever to call hunting one of them." She's wrong. Badly wrong. She tries to shut the cat flap so I can't get out into that dark world of excitement, cruelty, blood and death.
She whines and complains when I get back late. All she thinks about is how I might get eaten by a fox or run over by a car. She doesn't sympathise with, and doesn't want to hear of, the pleasures of waiting near a rat hole, the mysterious whispering and squeaking that goes on in the night, the dark shadows where you might see a tail slipping by, the cry of the hunting owl, the bark of the hunting fox, the quiverings, the pouncings, the crunch of bone as my teeth sink into a furry neck. The night is alive with hunters of all kinds and full of dark cruel doings. Moonlight and shadows play in a world of predators and prey.
I was late. And I was rather late the night before. And the night before. The delights of the fireside, the bowl of food, and the touch of a human hand, are nothing to the fierce excitements of the night. Just thinking about the world of the dark makes me quiver with anticipation. She just doesn't understand me.

Look at this - it's almost as big as I am

This was the day of days, the moment when my life reached the pinnacle of success and triumph. I caught a full grown adult rabbit. My first. It was so huge I couldn't get it through the cat flap - which is why the photograph is poor. Celia was in an inexplicable mood. Instead of welcoming me home as I dragged the dead body right down the farm track, she shuddered and ran indoors. So she would only take the photograph through the door. That's why it is bad quality. She let me down.
Indeed her emotional reaction was really perplexing. On the one hand she called to Ronnie, with a real note of pride, saying "Look what he's caught." Then she said: "That's good news for my vegetable patch." All well and good. Then came a series of remarks suggesting that she had had second thoughts. "At least, it's dead. I just couldn't bear it if I had to dispatch it." Then: "I wish he wouldn't kill everything."
The woman can't decide whether she's proud of me or upset by me. Talk about conflicting emotions. You see she wrote a book called "One Hundred Ways to a Happy Bunny" because she loves rabbits. Ånd she's connected with the Rabbit Welfare Fund. So she is actually as fond of bunnies as I am - only in a rather different way.
It all rather spoiled my triumph. Who'd keep humans as pets. They are so devastatingly irrational.

My very own take away bird bar

Celia has installed a take away bird bar for me in the garden. It was never very well designed because the lure-feeders are too high but otherwise it worked more or less OKl. Scores of little birds arrived there and it was up to me to choose which ones to eat. Because of the design fault, I couldn't reach the high up ones, but a lot of the bait falls on the grass, which was my killing ground. Obviously no birds ventured there when I sat below in full sight but I enjoyed just looking sometimes - staying, as it were, in the first stage of the hunting sequence which is eye, stalk, pounce, grab, tear off feathers, eat.
Ordinary food in a bowl is just the last bit of the sequence and while satisfying hunger leaves all the other parts of the sequence not done. So just eating the food in the house leaves me filled but unfulfilled, so to speak.
So back to the take-away bird bar in the garden. When I was not just looking by sitting underneath, I used the shrubs for the hide before real hunting thrill. I sat in them and eyed the birds. I chose one, I did the stalk and bottom wiggle, then I sprang out, ran in and grabbed one before taking it in and tearing off the feathers on the carpet in the house, then ate it. I used to leave a little bit - perhaps a claw or a beak - for Mr Manners. Good fun.
But lately Celia has overdone the challenge. She had already put the feeders too high for me but yesterday she placed scrumpled up wire netting under the shrubs so that it interfered with my ability to do the run in. Now I run in up against the wire. That woman has not got any common sense. She's well meaning and I appreciate her thoughtfulness in taking the trouble to build the take-away installation. But she's now got the whole thing wrong. I can't reach the take-aways.

She's done it again! She's stolen my mouse!

Humans! They are the lowest of the low species! She's stolen my mouse! A particularly lively fat one at that! In the evening, I am imprisoned in the house with the cat flap shut. It may be warm but it gets very boring, especially at about 3am. Obviously, I do my best to liven things up by jumping on her bed, worming my way into it to play the you-are-a-mouse game with her, or just pounce on her head as she lies on the pillow. But I am afraid she quite often just sleeps through all this.
Out of the kindness of my heart, I thought I would make my own arrangements for a 3am game. Instead of treating her as a mouse, I brought in a proper one. It was big, surprisingly fat for this time of year, and had a most exciting squeak. I stashed it under the fridge, as I often do, but it insisted in running round the kitchen and wedging itself in the corner of the open kitchen door. It squeaked so loudly that even a deaf human could hear it. (They can't hear much. Their sense of hearing is inferior to ours.)
That woman - I can hardly bring myself to name her - heard it and fetched a wellie. She then wedged the wellie near the door with the idea that the mouse could run into it. Well, for about five minutes it didn't get the point, and Celia and I had good fun. I tried to catch it and Celia tried to stop me. Very enjoyable and my blood was up, so if I scratched her I couldn't be blamed for it. The excitement of the moment had me in thrall and besides it was aimed at the mouse. Then the idiotic little thing finally got the point and ran into the wellie. Celia picked it up, getting in the way of me the predator and the mouse my lawful prey, and chucked the wellie into the hedge.
No mouse. No more fun. No 3am snack. That woman is a kill joy. For a moment or two I could have killed her - only she's so much bigger than I am.

My best day ever - bagged a partridge

This is my best day ever. Almost the perfect day. I'll come to why it wasn't later. Lately the fields round me have been full of huge bewildered pheasants let out of their nearby pens, where they have been kept like poultry, to starve in the fields before getting shot by humans. Hundreds of them. The nearby road is sticky with their blood and feathers. Slighly less big but just as bewildered are the French partridges (easier to rear in hen coops than the more alert English species). They too are wandering round unable to cope with life in the wild. No idea of predators which is where I came in. I have been eyeing up the pheasants for the past week since they were let out. I've had a couple of practice runs but stopped short each time. These are huge birds, taller than I am, fat and slow moving as pigs. This is the cat's time. They haven't learned to run and in their hen coops they haven't had a chance to fly. The humans have only slaughtered a few of them. My chance is now. As I run in for the grab, I keep thinking about their size so I stop.
This morning was my opportunity. The French partridges stay in proper groups and are normally a bit cleverer than the pheasants. They all keep a look out for one another. If one spots something (like me) they all fly off. Well this morning, one of them hadn't stayed alert for danger. They'd come into the garden in a vain hope of food - outside is all ploughland - and the poor saps are used to breakfast being put in a food hopper for them.
I eyed it up. Definitely a more manageable size than a pheasant. I stalked. I did the run in. I grabbed the bird - no mean feat when you consider its size even if it's smaller than a pheasant. And I popped through the cat flap fast so that I could finish it off at leisure in the kitchen. That's where my perfect day ended. Moving with unusual speed, Celia grabbed me. I dropped the bird who ran into the living room. Celia handed me to Ronnie and walked out shutting the door. I never saw the partridge again.
Did I sulk? I looked thoughtfully at the feathers and the smear of blood on the kitchen tiles, and decided not to hold grudges. I went out for another one.