This is my weasel. I, William the bold hunter, caught it. Over the years I have caught several. It takes skill. They are very fierce, fast moving and, if you get it wrong, they can give a very vicious bite. They go for the throat. Luckily, I have never yet got it that wrong. This one I caught the other day, and left on the lawn. Because I was brought up without a cat flap I don't bring prey inside. (It's difficult enough doing the cat flap without trying to do it with a mouse or a weasel in my mouth. I only got the hang of it a couple of years ago when Celia installed one for the first time.)
Anyway I caught the weasel. I brought it home. Placed it on the lawn to admire it. (You don't eat weasels unless you are starving.) And what happened? George bagged it and brought it through the cat flap and deposited it in the dining room. Celia and Ronnie came back to find it. "Look what George has done" she crooned. "He's caught a weasel. He's such a good hunter." I felt sick to my stomach at this betrayal.
It was left to Ronnie to put her right (as he often does). "Nonsense. George may have brought it in, but William caught it," he said stoudly defending my hunting prowess. I like Ronnie. We have a man to man relationship.
To mark my skill, they put it back on the lawn and took this picture. Not every cat can catch a weasel. George for one can't. He's just a rotten cheat.