A murder took place in our kitchen last night: I was getting Laika's kibble out of the pantry when Laika lurched across the room, caught a little brown mouse in her mouth and shook him to death, all in about the span of 3 seconds. And while I'm not overjoyed that we had a mouse in our kitchen (our house is over a hundred years old, and I've never seen droppings anywhere) I was significantly more upset by Laika's hunting prowess. Mark and I were traumatised by the poor dead mouse and necessary disposal (including ensuring the poor animal was indeed dead, and not just suffering, which required a bag and a hammer). We're a catch and release family here, even with the big hairy huntsman spiders we find (though roaches, moths, and mosquitoes are shown no mercy). Now we're just hoping that Laika never manages to get a hold of a possum, as clearly she's not quite as inept a hunter as I used to think.