I found this poor hermit thrush on our front doorstep last weekend, just one of many birds to meet an untimely end at McBone Outpost 1211, known in some bird circles as the house of death. While several of these tragedies were clearly accidental (and some clearly not), this time I'm not ruling out foul play.
And what a senseless killing! All a hermit thrush does is mind its own business, hopping around the brush, eating bugs and warbling its little heart out. They're not the most sociable of birds, hence the name, and I felt lucky to hear its song every morning outside the window. Alas, no more.
What manner of evil was behind this brutal slaying? The bold depositing of the corpse on our stoop and the perfectly placed puncture marks at the base of the scull lead me to believe the perpetrator was not just calculating and cold-blooded, but also very feline.