Stupidity is much the same all the world over.

Here is a dog, not to be confused with a cat. This dog can often be spotted skulking around the Salamanca waterfront each morning. I hope that it doesn’t like in one of these high rise apartments – although I suspect that it does – as life in the inner city is no life for a breed as active as the Border Collie.

I’m not a dog man though; I’m more a cat man. Truth be told, I’m more a crocodile or great white shark man but good breeders can be so hard to find these days. Anyway, I thought that I might leverage off a little discussion that I had on the artistic commune of clusterflock, and share a tale from the murky belly of history.

Like all good stories, it involves a romantic entanglement with a sharp tongued woman, a murder and a dark and stormy night. It also involves a cat, hence the somewhat convoluted segue.

As any cat owner will know, rats are ruthless and efficient killers. If you current have a cat on staff, or have ever had one, you will no doubt be familiar with the inevitability of wounded and/or dying animals turning up on your doorstep (or in your lounge room, under your bed, in your bed et cetera). On occasion, you – as owner – will be called upon to deliver the coup de grace.

I will be honest with you though, I am an individual utterly ruined by the comforts of modern life. Despite my fondness for all things meat, I am squeamish about killing and on those occasions where it is required, I inevitably choose one of drowning or a short sharp blow with a heavy object. Of course, my father – the product of an earlier generation – is old school and seems happy to go the neck wringing route.

So, to the story! Some years ago – early in our courtship – my wife had a cat. As cats do, it would routinely bring in badly injured animals that were aided in their ‘journey into the next life’. One day, sick of the bloodshed, I told Jennifer that she had to take responsibility for the cat's callous actions, and thus the burden to put the sick and injured out of their misery fell upon her shoulders, and that she had to deal with the havoc that he wrought upon the local fauna.

Picture it, early summer, a warm, humid evening. A storm was brewing. Out of the gradually escalating darkness in comes the cat with a distressed baby bird, frail, featherless, bleeding, yet chirping loudly. If you are familiar with the habits of birds, once out of the nest (and especially if handled by humans), it would be doomed to starvation as the parents would most certainly reject it.

Now, she begged me to do the deed, but – having made my position clear – denied her such an easy option. Thus, in the haughtiest manner I could manage (which is pretty bloody haughty), I informed Jennifer that it was her duty as a decent human being to “take care of business” and sent her on her way. I suggested that drowning would be an adequate method and pointed her in the direction of the laundry (which was located outside in the backyard).

In the mean time, it had finally darkened, and the rain started to pelt down. Three or so minutes later, in comes poor old Jennifer, dripping wet, with large welding gloves on (also wet), cradling the still chirping bird, tears streaming down her face, telling me that she just couldn’t do it. Indeed, upon venturing, I discovered that she had even prepared warm water to dispatch the bird (lest it get cold).

Disappointed, but knowing the hand that fate had dealt me, I – silently – took the wretched creature off of her and went outside to finish the deed. Shunning the laundry, I opted for blunt force. It was mercifully quick, and without doubt painless for the poor beastie.

That evening I think that - for good or bad - we learned a little more about each other.

So I put it to you out there: are you a killer or not? Are you a neckwringer, drowner or basher; or are you more likely to shut the doors and windows and put the stereo on and passivly wait for nature to go about its messy business in peace and quiet?