Her killing meows are almost plaintive, the same she uses when she suggests I feed her. She pins the moth's wings back in her mouth and trots towards me, then drops them to examine her prey, which staggers across the floor. Mew, meow, mew, mew. She watches him struggle, then catches him up again. I can't watch, but I can't stop her either, so I go back to the kitchen and pretend I can't hear her.

When I come back to the living room with my coffee, she is splayed out in the sun. She eyes me warily and with pride. You're a good cat, I tell her, and I stoop to stroke her side.