When I still lived in the city I once had a cat named Jack (from Jack the Ripper). As to be expected, rats feared him like he was the notorious murderer. No need to spell out here the gory details of his exploits except he was specially born a rat hunter.
So, our house was rodent-free because of Jack. But that also caused him to get depressed. He probably felt useless. What good is a hunter without a prey?
To keep Jack happy, I brought a gold fish inside a bowl. He would be pleased to watch his ‘pet’ playing in the water.
Most of the time, I saw Jack walking around the bowl, pretending to be an interested spectator. I was glad my cat seemed to have solved his depression.
But one day, I was dismayed to find out the goldfish was dead, floating lifelessly in the still water. Naturally, I looked out for Jack. He probably tried to fish the poor thing with one of his paws, his sharp claws mortally injuring the fish.
I saw him in the sofa sleeping contentedly.
I went over and confronted my pet. I motioned to the fish bowl while Jack lazily stretched his body.
I carried him near the bowl.
Jack looked perplexed as if asking why was the fish floating, He looked at my angry face and immediately stared in disbelief as if saying, “Oh no! I I did not kill it!”
“What happened?” I asked as if I would get a verbal reply from Jack.
Unnaturally, Jack held his front paws high as if swearing of innocence.. He probably added, “Beats me! The fish probably drowned.”