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'Don't worry,' she replied, 'I'll teach them not to kill.' And in one fell swoop went from en-
dearingly stubborn and resolute to downright deluded.
The kittens were, by now, eight months old and it was carnage. Now obviously the coun-
tryside is a brutal place and as a lifelong 'townie' it takes some getting used to, but the sheer
level of slaughter was frightening. I honestly didn't realise how much wildlife we had at the
place until it started turning up in piles on the doorstep, and it was relentless. All day, every
day, without rest or pause. If they hid what they killed, had any shame whatsoever it might
have been more bearable; and if Natalie and the boys also didn't feel the need to have a state
funeral every time another poor creature fell prey to the murderous felines that may have
helped too. It was getting like Wootton Bassett at home, another senseless death, another
outpouring of emotion, another burial. There was so much butchery at one point that even
Natalie had to start using a mass grave instead of the individual plots she'd been regularly
preparing and it also created a level of desensitisation with the boys. When the rabbit died,
Samuel was in tears for hours afterwards but now neither he nor Maurice felt able to raise
their heads from their Nintendos, a certain level of
ennui
having set in despite the heavy death
toll.
For any sentient human being this presents a stark choice, either accept what is going on or
get rid of the cats, but seeing as neither of these seemed to actually be an option for Natalie
she moved onto a third alternative, which I nicknamed Operation King Canute and was, I
fear, always doomed to failure. The plan was this: acknowledge that cats have, over millions
of years, evolved into brutal and efficient hunters and that they have their rights, but then
teach them new skills while still having all the temptations around them. I admire Natalie's
tenacity, I really do, but it was a bit like watching Tim Henman at Wimbledon, noble and
backed up with fanatical support maybe, but ultimately doomed to failure.
The cats of course were completely bemused by the whole project, when Flame was forcibly
removed from a large mouse and picked up by the scruff of his neck one day and told he was
being 'very naughty', he had a look of utter bewilderment on his face. I pointed out to Natalie
that he wasn't being naughty at all but doing only what comes naturally to him.
'You used to wake up every morning and light up a cigarette!' she shot back. 'But you
changed!'
'Fair enough. I'll just nip down the vets and get some 'Instinct Patches' then, shall I?' I said
and scurried away before she picked me up by my neck too.
'Cat Bibs' were the answer apparently. Having trawled the Internet for potential solutions, of
which there are unsurprisingly very few, it seemed like Cat Bibs would do the trick. And they
definitely work, according to the makers of Cat Bibs. The Cat Bib is exactly what it sounds
like, it's a brightly coloured bib, made of rubber and foam and attaches to the cat's collar. I
did some research of my own on this and not only did I not find a great deal of evidence to
suggest that they do work, but even the people who say that they work aren't really sure why.
