I’m sorry. So sorry. Not one, but two young Mourning Doves got turned into sprays of feathers under the Bleeding Heart. How appropriate. And my evil cat is not sorry at all.
Yes, I’ve heard the arguments to keep your cat inside, but what good is a garden without a cat or two lounging under the bushes, plotting deviltry? He’s just doing his job. And it’s good for him to make wild leaps at birds and miss, or engage in fruitless squirrel chasing. Except very, very occasionally he whacks someone. The fledglings are the ones that don’t stand a chance. It’s a wonder that any of them make it.
But they do. I still hear doves cooing like ocarinas on the roofs. There’s still chickadees, juncos (in the winter), and sparrows despite their losses. The blue jays and the cardinals keep coming back. I’ve never seen him nail a house finch, a goldfinch, a mockingbird, a robin, a starling, or a woodpecker. They keep such a sharp eye out for cats, that when he does catch a pretty bird, or a cute mousie, I’m startled, saddened, shocked–but deep down inside, I’m proud of the little monster. So I guess I’m evil, too.