My aunt's cat, Allegro, was a mighty hunter who ate the entire corpse EXCEPT the gall bladder, which he would leave in a high-traffic area apparently on purpose. Allegro was famous for having slain a weasel that got into the house, and -- again -- eating much of it. The weasel was a bit much even for Allegro's appetite so, as well as the gall bladder, the head remained to allow identification of the victim.

Our cats adapted easily to our shift from full-time employment to pensioner status and, now that the isolation rules have us at home all the time, they are self-appointed keepers of the household routine. Watson (with Isobel in reserve) gets Himself up at or before the crack of dawn, depending on when he detects the first twitch of an eyelid and, if the smell of coffee doesn't extract me from the scratcher, either Watson or Isobel returns to the bedroom at about seven o'clock to do the job.

I have a big, fat book manuscript to edit, so I spend the day battering the keyboard. Watson comes to the study at five o'clock if Himself has not already delivered the afternoon treat, and again at six o'clock to bring me downstairs to make human supper.

I think he might have been a foreman or maybe a sergeant in a previous life.