Oh, bugger.

On Sunday morning, I hauled my sorry arse out of bed. The house looked like ground zero would have looked had it had wine bottles and the entire contents of a kitchen scattered over it. There were people asleep on the couch and in my study, leftover from Saturday night's dinner party.

I wandered out onto the back verandah to start collecting beer bottles, wine glasses and the chess set that the boys had abandoned at dawn, only to find a stunned dove sitting on the buffalo grass. It had one wing stuck out at an angle; its neck feathers were damp and Mr Furpants was prowling nearby. I scolded him and picked up the dove.

"Bad kitty!"

"Miaow?"

"No, bad kitty!" (smack)

"Miaoowww??"

"No! Bad! Kitty!" (Smack!)

Eventually, I stood on a chair to put the dove up in the fretwork of the verandah, so it would be out of reach of Mr F's claws. I should admit that I have tried this in the past and it hasn't worked, but I was mildly hungover and really didn't have the strength to dispatch the poor thing. Yes, I knew that it had been mauled. Yes, I knew that it was probably in shock and/or would die of cat bite bugs. But it wasn't dead yet, so I put it out of kittyreach, hoping that it would gather its feathers and fly away.

I peered out the back door a few minutes later and saw Mr F standing on his hind legs on the arm of a chair, swiping at the dove four feet above. I'm not sure the dove even noticed. As I watched, it began to wobble on its perch and as the door slammed behind me, it rolled forwards, flapping drunkenly.

And instead of landing harmlessly on its back on the grass, it broke its neck on the edge of pavers.

Cheerful, yeah? Remind me to tell you about the time I visited the morgue.