Oliver sat down at the kitchen table and starred at the dead canary on the plate. Its yellow feathers fluttered as the breeze came in from the window. He flicked the decapitated head onto the table, then got up and closed the window, took out knife and fork from the drawer and returned to the chair.
The cat sat on the chair opposite watching Oliver as he jammed the fork into the dead canary. Oliver looked at the cat and smirked as he began to cut a wing off. When it was free from the carcass, he held the fork out towards the cat. It leaned forward to take the wing off the fork, but Oliver whisked it away, stuck it in his own mouth and began chewing.
He gagged as the tiny bones crunched and blood trickled down his throat. Bloodied feathers fell onto the table, then without swallowing, he took the wing back out of his mouth and tossed it onto the table. The cat went for it, Oliver instinctively reached out to stop it, and the cat scratched him on the back of the hand.
‘Fuck,’ he exclaimed before putting the back of his hand to his mouth and sucking. The blood on his teeth from the canary, rubbed off on his hand making the scratches look worse. He reached across the table and tore off a piece of kitchen roll, dabbing it on his hand and then putting it in his pocket.
He plucked a feather off the canary and threw it at the cat. It swished into the air and gently fell back to the table. His eyes narrowed as he looked at it, then jabbed his fork into the carcass again and took a bite from the body. The cat hissed in annoyance, so Oliver spat his mouthful at it, then he heard the key turn in the front door.
Oliver threw the canary at the cat, put the plate and fork in the dishwasher and ran out into the garden. He sprinted across the lawn and cleared the fence just as he heard shouting coming from inside the house. In the alleyway he bent over and tried to get his breath back, looking up and down to make sure he was alone.
He took the kitchen roll from his pocket and dabbed the sides of his mouth and rubbed his teeth, then threw it on the ground and walked towards the main road. He was shortly standing in front of the house, but as he approached, he stopped and took a chewing gum out of his pocket.
He put the key in the door and opened it, ‘I’m back,’ he shouted in a cheerful manner.
‘Oh darling,’ Suzie cried, ‘I’m so sorry, Oliver.’ Without waiting Oliver walked towards the kitchen, a look of concern painted on to his face.
‘No, don’t come in,’ Suzie said, meeting him at the doorway with her hands raised to stop him.
‘It’s poor Tweety. Sylvester has gotten to him.’ Oliver tried to look over her shoulder to see how much of the Tweety, Sylvester had managed to consume in that brief period of time.
‘No, don’t look’. Suzie urged pushing against his shoulders, trying to get him away.
‘That damn cat. I told you he hated me. Look what he did to my hand his morning,’ Oliver bawled, lifting his scratched hand in front of Suzie’s face. ‘And now poor Tweety,’ he said with a look of dismay on his face.
‘I know, I know. Maybe Sylvester could stay with my mum and we can get a dog like you’ve always wanted,’ she consoled, Oliver nodded in reply.
She embraced Oliver as tightly as she could and over her shoulder Oliver could see Sylvester framed in the doorway to the garden. He grinned, raised his fingers so they imitated a gun, then pretended to fire.