Wilson was one when we got him, now he's two. Happy Birthday, Mr. Wilson!
If you look closely at the pictures you will see Wily Old Wilson stalking prey from the safety of his enclosure behind the Adirondack chairs. He'll sit there for hours waiting for one of his nemesis's to forget that he's there, and he'll spring from his hiding place and give chase, nipping at the bushy squirrell tail as he runs for his life.
He hasn't caught one yet but he's come mighty close. I hope he never gets one. I suppose it's instinct that tells him to chase, but sometimes I wonder if domestication tempers the instinct. He caught a bird the week we brought him home and looked repentant when I found the headless body. He took no joy in the act, and hasn't chased birds since. Mourning doves gather at the foot of the feeders and he doesn't give them a second look.
Maybe I'll get him a squirrel shaped Birthday Cake. Probably not. We'll most likely just do what we do every day; enjoy the moments that present themselves. Mr. Wilson learned that it's the pursuit of a goal that means more than the capture. Doesn't mean he's not going to keep on chasing though!
Me neither, now that I think about it.