Must cats be cats?

If he was in a pick-up game on some ball diamond, he'd be out in right, if he was on the field at all. He's not an athlete--trust me on that. He's not agile, not thin. Our grandkids claim he's huge. Look at him. He's got a serious case of middle-age spread, and he's not even middle-age. He's a millennial. 

And he's got rituals, like all of us. He loves to haunt the garage at night, stands at the door as if he's dying to be out there when we go to bed. When I let him back in in the morning, he tromps downstairs--he's not quiet--then insists on sitting on my lap even though I have no such thing when I'm here up against the desk and at my keyboard. He won't stop bawling until I take him up here anyway (and he's huge, remember), pet him a while, not long, before he leaves and maybe sits in the window to watch the birds feeding just outside.

Great life he's got, really. Later, when his mistress is up too, he begs to go outside on the deck, so we let him, and all's well.

For a while. 

Lately, our heavy-set, big shouldered, thick-bellied Blue Russian has determined he wants to be a beast, to follow the pad-steps of some long-ago barbarian ancestor and grab birds right out of the air. He's weighs more than a shot put, but he's pulled it off four times now. We're sitting in the living room drinking morning coffee when suddenly there's a huge thumping just outside and some frantic bird is screaming. There our heavyweight stands at the screen door with a frenzied sputzie, feathers a' fluttering, in his teeth. 

If he just simply must hunt, I'd as soon not know about it. His victims go mad, which he  loves--he seems far less interested in murder than torture, and it's not that he's hungry.

But he wants in. Bird-in-chops, he demands to come in. Why? Does he have to champion his own worst instincts? Does he need his approval for his crimes?

All the while the poor victim--a goldfinch last month, a baby robin just a day or two ago--is screaming to escape the his teeth. 

I open the door a crack, and he butts in. I put my foot in front of his bird-laden face, and he squirms to the side, absolutely determined. All we need is a bird in the living room. I counter his moves, push him back, and he dodges, like some fine boxer, like Ali. He wants to bring that poor fluttering victim into the house. I'm not happy he picked that bird off in the first place; the last thing I'm interested in is his being a savage with a baby bird right here on our living room rug.

What is it with cats? They've got to show off? I've always considered their charm is their sheer unflappable character. They're almost totally expressionless. Does he want to bring him in to prove he's macho? That's horribly un-cat, isn't it? 

Finally, I get outside and sort of kick him around the deck until his jaw loosens and the poor bird escapes, forever traumatized but alive. I'll give him that. As yet, at least, he hasn't killed one. 

My wife says I need to chill because Smoky is just doing what cats do. Well, yes, but that they move their bowels doesn't mean we tolerate their doing it in the bathroom sink. 

Once our sweet neighbor lady, a sworn cat-lover, tired of her Donald killing off birds in the bushes on the side of the house. Donald was a street fighter if there ever was one, and he warn't about to throw down his weapons and quit the game. Thusly, she hung a sweet little bell around his bull neck, released him back into the outdoors, and determined she had the problem cured until Donald learned--get this!--to walk in a step that kept that bell from tolling. Seriously. That happened. 

Soon enough, he was doing what my wife says cats do, cats like ours too--heavy-set non-athletes.

Must we be victims of our nature's worst behaviors?--that's the question I need answered. Are we powerless to change what we are? Are cats? Must cats be cats?

The sun's up. Time to let him in.