With a swoop, he gathers the cat in one arm, swings the pheasant from the other. The thing is, he doesn't know where to now, and his sudden surge of energy dissipates as quickly as it came.
He stands there, in the clearing, painfully, acutely aware of the fact that he must look like an idiot.
"You know," he tells the cat, looking at the sky, "if I were not to come back. If something happened here. Wherever this is." He swallows, grips the squirming cat a little harder. "They wouldn't miss me."
Eventually he can't hold the bundle any longer. He watches the cat make a few darting leaps, then stop and wheel around to face him as he sits flat on his arse, distractedly stroking bloodied tailfeathers.
You know, he almost says, some people will tell you that I was... non compos mentis, in the end. That disease had affected my brain. But that's not true. I just. I. Didn't see the point.
Not looking up, he starts to weave his fingers through blades of grass.