Through the cage’s thick mesh, I see the remains of the slaughter: three slain cockatiels, what’s left of them, two reduced to a mere pulp of feathers and bone, the third strangely intact but for its chewed-off head. The tiger-striped cat, that high priestess of the garden, sits in the aviary’s far corner, her tail beating back and forth, her yellow eyes innocently observing the fallout of her nighttime feast. I sensed her immense gratitude last night when I unlatched the aviary’s door for her. After all, she’d been hungering for those birds her entire life.
