We didn’t see a thing until it was nearly over; the assassin had pinned him on the grass, and from the mess around the pair, we thought at first that she had killed him already. Kicks and curses sent her running for cover, and we turned our attention to the victim, who lay blinking silently at us; pulse running like a jackhammer.
We knew he must be dying. No need to extend his suffering further; I fetched a slash-hook, and brought the blade down beside his neck, measuring my distance for the coup de grace. Then, lifted the shaft for the fatal blow, but stopped my swing at a shout – “not there!”.
I slid the flat of that wicked old blade beneath the body of the little thrush, the better to carry him where a little bird-blood would make no mind – but just as the cold of the metal reach him, he erupted into a flurry of beating wings - and to our utter amazement, cleared the hedge at the end of the garden in fair imitation of a pheasant.
The cat gave us a look of utter disgust, then stalked off.