My first wife had a cat named Cassandra, and she had a litter of three kittens. One was grey, black and white, and we called him Batman. Two were ginger, and I don’t remember what we called them, but the neighbour who took one of them in called him Sophus. He grew up to become a fine tomcat and a great hunter.
Sophus and his owner lived on the ground floor with a little garden on the edge of a park. So the cat would come home with prey and lay it at his owner’s feet. There were birds, including the fast ones, and small rodents. Sophus was good. But hunting wasn’t always good. After his second-worst day in that park, Sophus came home with an earthworm.
On his blackest day ever, Sophus the cat came home with a potato.