The black and white boy cat, from across the road, often saunters proudly through my garden with a fat, grey, wood-pigeon in his mouth.
I’m really scared of dead birds.
I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s the way their wings thrash furiously during their last moments.
Maybe it’s their feet.
I just don’t like the look of birds feet.
Yesterday, the black and white boy cat from across the road, sat under a tree in my garden; his tail swishing from side to side, his eyes firmly locked on his target: A fat, grey, wood-pigeon.
I watched from the window.
Then a flash of black and white.
I peered out from behind my hands, my heart in my mouth. Thumpety thump.
Out of nowhere, a tiny, white feather gently floated past the window before settling on the ground.
I looked for the bird.
The certainly dead bird.
But I couldn’t see it.
The black and white boy cat took his position once more under the tree.
Later, I thought about the tiny, white feather and how I’d presumed it belonged to the bird I presumed had been killed by the black and white boy cat.
I smiled to myself as I stood in the garden and picked up the tiny, white feather and held it in my hand, all the while wondering if the universe was sending me a sign or teaching me a lesson to somehow stop fearing the worst.
Or maybe I’m just really scared of dead birds.