If you are a cat person you may not enjoy this story. Generally speaking people can be divided into two groups; those who love cats and those who loathe them. Cat owners, or should I say those who are tolerated by their furry felines, always seem to have an unbalanced view of their relationship. Nobody actually owns a cat. Their display of affection mysteriously coincides with feeding time, while most other times they are sullen and unco-operative. Have you ever tried calling a cat over for a pat? If you are the "feeder" you have an even chance. Anyone else would get the stony stare, or more likely the one-eyed salute.
In comparison, dogs are useful. Even the most pathetic of super-rat lap dogs will bark if a stranger lurks about in the middle of the night. Dogs are mates. They will try to do something for you because they appreciate being fed and looked after. Basically, dogs will not take you for granted.
But perhaps the worst thing about cats is the hunter within them. Of course you can not blame cats for their instincts, rather they should never have been brought to this country in the first place. Their impact on native Australian wildlife has been devastating. Nobody can know for sure how many birds and animals have been wiped out, but recent studies show that even the most domesticated, placid and well-fed moggies exercise their hunting skills, apparently for the fun of it.
Bill lives in an outer suburb of Brisbane. He is fond of the local birdlife; like many areas around the city there are substantial green belts with an abundance of wildlife, both native and imported. It would be fair to say that Bill is not a cat person. It would also be fair to say that all the cats in the immediate vicinity sense this and treat him with a deal of respect (i.e. distance).
But not so on one fine evening. Dusk was falling, and in the failing light Bill happened to glance out of his front window and his face fell in horror. Slowly, very deliberately, a large tabby was climbing a wooden pole directly in front of his front gate, as his feathered quarry sat unsuspecting at the top of the pole.
Bill was aghast. What could he do? In desperation he scanned his bedroom, his eyes falling on the crossbow leaning in the corner. Good sense does not always dictate in these matters, and instead of despatching said tabby from said pole with a size ten boot, Bill decided to get even for a few of his birdy mates.
He carefully eased open the window, placed his foot through the stirrup and silently cocked the crossbow off the floor, slid an aluminium hunting bolt into position and, taking care to stay out of sight, took deliberate aim through the 4X rifle scope mounted on top.
THWACK!
Now, as all experienced shooters will know, when using a scope at close range you must remember that the line of sight and the trajectory do not meet up for some distance; this depends, of course, on how high the scope is mounted on the firearm, or in this case, the crossbow.
So what should have been a purrfect shot through the base of the neck, which would have brought about an immediate and painless "lights out", unfortunately hit a few inches lower, pinning the hapless tabby to the pole.
An awful high-pitched wailing echoed up and down the road; a terrible, unforgettable howling that froze the blood in your veins. Doors and windows opened, neighbours came running outside, trying to see where this truly distressing noise was coming from. Luckily the pole was set back from the footpath amongst the trees, so its side nearest Bill's house was obscured from view on all other sides.
Bill, meanwhile, was frantic. His hands shook, his pulse was racing, in short, he did the entirely natural thing in that situation; he panicked. Somehow he managed to reload his crossbow, draw back from the window so as not to be spotted, and once again took aim.
The cat, however, was taking an increasingly dim view, and in addition to yowling like a demented banshee, was peddling with all four feet, spinning like a catherine wheel (or should that be cat-rin wheel?) around the shaft. All things considered, with frayed nerves, hyperventilating, free-standing, and having to track a moving target to beet, Bill did rather well in silencing the tormented cat with his second shot, right on target.
Some hours later, under cover of darkness, a much older and wiser Bill sidled out to cut down the impaled corpse.
And the moral of the story?
Never look a gift polecat through the crosshairs unless you have a repeater.
Try out our new Tabby Target Range.