My wife and I looked after this cat for a few months. Ginger by name, temperament and colouring, he was a good-natured old thing.
“Ginge” loved to hang out near the pool, where he was generally a placid, friendly animal. Except when he was off hunting. Then he turned into the thing that this picture captures, a bit of a killing machine. Look at Ginger’s eyes, his claws, his perfectly adapted trim body. Ginge could focus on a victim for hours at a time, patiently waiting till some poor native marsupial let down its guard to become the trophy of this barely domesticated wild hunter.
He kills for sport, not food, because we fed him daily. My friend – who “owns” Ginger – often wondered what mercy the cat would show us if the size ratios between cat and human were reversed.
Not much, so my friend thinks. Look at those claws and imagine them ten times the size. Actually. No, I won’t. I still have to feed Ginger occasionally. I don’t want that particular thought in my head.