One of the peculiarities of Calvin, the cat whom I'm sitting, is that after his owners' daughter was born, he started bringing them little presents - either because he felt neglected, or because he doubted their ability properly to provide for their offspring. These gifts have ranged from someone else's Christmas ham to a small bottle of bicycle oil.
This morning, I came downstairs to discover that I was the lucky recipient of a large, raw chicken bone. (God knows where he got it; he probably mugged a fox.)
I am quite flattered, as well as relieved that it wasn't some pathetic partially-dead creature for me to dispatch. Yuk, though.