When I got home from work today, I found my house covered with little brown feathers. Initially, I suspected my son's down jacket. But then I found feathers in the kitchen sink, in the bathtub, even in the toilet... As I dustbusted, unquestioningly, I caught my youngest son out of the corner of my eye joyously stomping up and down, giggling madly, on a tiny brown object (see above).
This raises many questions. Obviously, my cats had found a sparrow but they are indoor cats. Unless one of Bev's cats made a take-out delivery, this poor little guy somehow found his way in my house (I'd like to think the holes aren't quite so gaping), seeking relief from the bitter cold, and found himself in the clutches of two very inexperienced house cats. Judging from the evidence, his must have been a most brutal demise. I found bird shit on the walls and doors, a lamp was knocked over, one entire table in my kitchen was cleared off and my mantle was destroyed (thankfully shattering one particularly horrible Christmas gift from my mother-in-law). Avian carnage.
While I feel bad for the poor little bugger, a part of me wishes I had been here to see the mayhem. I keep forgetting my cats are animals.