I love animals. I have two dogs now, and would probably have cats too if it weren’t for my allergies.
When I was a kid, though, our family did have two cats. I named both of them. The older one, a pure-white cat, was named Josie. Thinking back on it now, I suspect I was influenced by "Josie and the Pussycats."
The other cat was a little beast – a grey tabby. I gave him the dubious name of Flower. Flower was the big boy tabby cat who used to kill rodents, and sit on a stump across the road from the bus stop crunching on them. "Crunch. Crunch. Crunch." My memory is a little sketchy on this, but I’m sure I heard him belch now and again after eating some delectable morsel of vole/mole/mouse/chipmunk.
He was never the sort of cat who would make a kill and then bring it to you, placing it gently at your feet or on your pillow. Oh no, he was the sort of cat would would make a kill and then EAT it, because that was the way of the natural world. Cats kill things, then they eat them.
Flower ended up going to live at a farm somewhere a few years after we got him. Josie, I still don’t know where she ended up. The one thing I do know, though, is that my dad’s horrible asthma attacks stopped instantly once the cats moved out.