Trotsky: As Murderous as Stalin (Almost.)
Again! This morning, I'm working in the living room...my nose deeply down to the protools grindstone...and after a few hours I notice my cat acting a little strange. He's clawing the chair I'm on and eagerly dancing around. Glance to my right, and there it is: a dead songbird. Throat slashed open. Lying on the ground. Feathers strewnlike bread crumbs tracking back across the trail of its entrance. It was, no doubt, carried in by Trotsky, my sweet, cuddly, charming little murderer.
So, I've closed the screen in my window. He's under house arrest now. But I fear he will kill again. It's his nature.