The bath area has become a prime hunting spot for Molls. Yesterday morning C, while exercising in the Great Room, watched in horror as Molls casually reached up and snatched a goldfinch who was perched on the edge taking a drink. We have a standard saying about our felines: deep down, part of them is still on the Serengeti. I'm going to pull out the familiar Attenborough voice-over trope:
Here we see Grey Molly in one of her favorite hunting grounds. Nineteen years old this August, she is still an active hunter. Her rippling grey coat echoes the color of the bath and retaining stones. Lying prone and moving little, her ears are erect, listening for prey flying in or potential ground foes-squirrels and other cats. Unlike her much larger cousins in the Serengeti, getting a kill for herself and her family is not a necessity. She is a well-fed domestic cat. Nevertheless, Grey Molly is doing what all cats do, which is hunting, retaining her natural wild instincts.
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