Winston often attacks Sarah. She has a great reaction, which he very clearly enjoys. Only occasionally will he attack me. Last night, he bit my leg and actually drew a little blood. It was just a little scratch, but still blood. Those are the times that make us question whether Winston should be here, or if we should release him into some jungle.
Winston is a hunter. He’s a tiger. He may be a bit on the small side, but he’s got all of the instincts and none of the inhibitions. In our first home, we had crickets. The house had just been finished, and there were still a few inside. It seemed that every morning we’d wake up to cricket body parts strewn about an area. Limbs were torn off, and sometimes he’d still be batting around a one-legged cricket who could now only waddle in circles. Winston is a brutal hunter.
About seven months ago, we had the fear of watching Winston play with a scorpion. He flicked the thing across the kitchen as Sarah shrieked. We knew he didn’t know what he was doing. Sarah grabbed Winston and ran, while I killed the scorpion. We’ve seen a few scorpions around the yard, but no more in the house.
This morning I came down to see scorpion body parts strewn across the reading room. A pincher was ripped off. A tail was in half. The head was squashed. This wasn’t a battle, but a slaughter. It was torture. There are clearly no rules of war for a cat.
Winston chases us, bites us, and gets us up three hours early to feed him a second breakfast. He isn’t an easy roommate. He isn’t an easy friend. But he’s a necessary one. Winston is our hunter and keeps us safe from all threats internal, be it cricket, scorpion, or excessive cat food.