Zadie was sitting on the back of the sofa when a magpie flew past the window. She did that funny juddery cry that cats do when they're imagining killing a bird and crushing its bones between its teeth.
Phoebe was most concerned. She put her face next to Zadie's and tenderly stroked her neck.
"What's wrong my little cat? What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I think she wants to eat the bird," I told her.
"It's okay, my little cat. It's okay. But don't eat my bird. He will eat you."