A real kill. A good kill. It takes pure artistry.
I glance around when I hear paws padding across the kitchen. Good, I think, the cat who can't understand catflaps has come back and I can lock the back door up for the night. Hm, I think, as he continues into the lounge, what's that he's go----oh, gods. It's his first kill. A tiny field mouse corpse, looking all chewed and battered.
The command "drop it!" works. For about half a second, before he takes it back off and goes to play with it in the comfort of--- "No! Do NOT drop the corpse on my shoes!" Corpse is duly dropped right next to the most expensive pair. I fetch kitchen towel and attempt to get to dead body lying beside my Jones' strappy wedges. Sébastian is guarding his victim from me. Several annoyed "leave it!"s later and I get to the mouse. It is very dead: tiny black bead eyes sit blankly and one leg is looking worryingly flat.
Only this afternoon, I was saying that there had been no presents yet and wondering if it was his size, his injuries or his stupidity. Now I know it was none of these: it was his innate sense of ironic timing.