Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Claws O’ Death
It was a grizzly scene we discovered Saturday evening, when we returned from the Saint-Nicolas party at my sister’s. The murder scene was covered in streaks of blood. The poor victim lay in the middle of the back hallway which gives access to the garden. His glassy, staring eyes looked accusingly to the glass ceiling and the dark skies beyond.
Why, oh why? Why was this innocent life taken?
I waded through the plumes to get to the poor pigeon. Its chest was ripped open and it was obvious its killer had been eating it. No doubt our unexpected return had caught the villain in his savage act.
We interrogated the usual suspects. One of them had a white feather sticking to its mouth, but any judge would see that as circumstantial evidence. There was nothing we could do but cleaning up the dried blood from our floor.
Two days later, I went shopping. When I returned, I found another hapless victim on the very spot where we’d found the first dove. It’s attacker had started to undress the corpse, but I had frightened him before he could start his meal. This time, there were clear claw marks.
Incredibly, the murderer walked in only moments later, as if nothing had happened. I was just in the kitchen to fetch a broom, when I heard the cat flap. When I entered, I saw Snijeg licking the body of his prey.
‘Fuck the justice system’, I muttered. I wasn’t going to let this creep escape just because he has a good lawyer. I took revenge for the poor pigeon. A couple of swift blows from the broom later, the killer cat shot out of the cat flap like a Tomahawk missile out of its launch tube.
I buried the pigeon in the anonymous mass grave, known as the garbage bin.