Paying it back

I put our cats onto the “What The Cat Dragged In” project in March 2021. The project was set up by a PhD candidate for her dissertation, and it aimed to measure the prey taken by domestic cats. Our two were not hunters, and I hoped their records would help to clear the name of Felis silvestris catus as a species. The Telegraph ran a righteous story just a week ago about how many millions of birds and rodents ‘might be’ slaughtered by pet cats, conveniently forgetting that snakes, hawks, dogs and people also kill birds and rodents in their millions.

As soon as I signed her up, Genie began to fetch us presents. She didn’t have our old ginger cat’s three rabbits a day habit, but two or three times a month (including one memorable two night spree in her cattery pen) she fetched in mice, shrews, voles – and birds. I still laugh at the memory of the two kittens fleeing up the stairs, chased by an irate blackbird chick they’d dragged in through the catflap. The chick swore at me while I tried to shoo it back outside to its waiting parents, but it made it safely – and as I didn’t find any gory remains later, I think it may have survived.

Genie is gone, now, buried next to her brother. I have tried to make up for her reign of terror – we feed the birds and have an area in our pond where they can have a splash-bath and a drink. We have two magpies that visit often, one with feathers sticking up in all directions (Scruffy Herbert) and another that is sleek and precise and tolerant of Scruffy, so I suspect they are related. And a blackbird that is willing to let us get within a couple of metres of it. Possibly the defiant chick that got away, all grown up and scared of nobody.

I got a chance to do some more birdy good today. I was lying on the bed, lost in a good book, when I saw a swoop of movement outside and something hit the window hard. When I went to investigate, there was a bluetit lying on the tiles of the sloping roof below our window. Upside down, shuddering, twisted – one leg trapped under its body and tail feathers stuck to the wet tiles.

It was just out of reach from the window, and out of reach from the ground below. I got a feather duster – I know, tactless, but the only thing long enough to reach – and gently turned it right side up. It tipped upright, shook itself and kept shaking. Its legs were splayed out a little, but it seemed to be able to move its head and sit upright, so I could hope it hadn’t broken its neck.

I left it a small heap of sunflower seeds and watched it from a distance. It sat there dazed for about fifteen minutes. It did occur to me that I should put it in a box to give it some protection from wild predators (our elderly cats slept through the entire incident, disinclined to move at more than waddle-speed for their food, but the local hawks would be less gentle). As soon as I climbed up the stepladder and reached slowly for the blue-tit, it startled; it flew away from my hand and hopped into the corner of the upper walls, sheltered from the rain and wind.

I left it there. I did keep an eye on it, always from a distance, and it pulled its wits together gradually. I could see that it was looking less dazed, more alert; it had stopped shivering and was turning its head, looking around with some purpose. About thirty minutes after the original head-butt, the bird had gone. I didn’t see it fly off, and I can only tell myself the comforting story that it flew away with a great story for its fledgings, and that it survives everything nature can throw at it from now on. Including windows.