Blood on Her Claws

While out on parole convicted killer Miss Rita struck again. Last time she caught a bird we were able to save it. This time we—and the bird—weren’t as lucky. The only clue was a drop of blood by the door leading to the deck. There was no sign of Rita. Officer K again performed a search for the felon, but she eluded capture. Whew, we thought. The bird escaped. Then last week I was down in the basement organizing our junk. I moved some box cartons, and there, lying on the concrete floor was the body. Being a complete wuss, I fled the premises, leaving Officer K to dispose of the remains. Miss Rita, when questioned, remained silent on the advice of her lawyer.

So how did this happen? K and I don’t let our cats roam free. We do, however, allow them out on the small deck over the garage. The deck is enclosed with white railing. There is no way for the cats to get off the deck, and, as far as I know, birds don’t land there. Birds do, though, fly overhead. I can only surmise that when a bird flies too low, Rita—who likes to perch on top of the railing—leaps for them.


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