Dead creatures cease to impress me anymore. Just ask my friend’s mom Debbie about the time she noticed a mangled bird on the grass near the Therm-a-Rest I was rolling up. She jumped; I kept rolling.

Live prey on the other hand makes my stomach turn flip flops. The desperate squeals of little bunnies are the worst, signalling an impending tragedy that I’m more or less powerless to avert. (Trust me, I’ve tried. Bunnies aren’t too good at finding cat-proof hiding places.)

Bentley has been playing with this one for the last two days. He crossed the line last night when he brought it home. I captured it in a shoe box and set it free in the garden. It was probably a futile effort, but it made me feel good.

Here’s a little haiku, inspired by our felines’ hunting prowess:

Run little rabbit!
Run from the Black Death Machine!
Oops. Too slow. You’re dead.