Bloody pawprints on his trousers, the cat thing headbutts Cesare's shin and mraows. "Er." He's not sure what to say. Does one thank a cat?
He bends to pick up the still-warm bird, its neck flopping, tailfeathers beautiful and miraculously unbroken. So at least he's not given to starve here. Or not that soon, anyway. He looks around; perhaps he can find twigs to start a fire with. Not that he was ever very good with that, but needs must. "Although I guess that bird should still hang a bit," he says to the cat. It's parked its scrawny behind on Cesare's left foot and proceeds to clean itself without paying attention to him.