Prokofieff Kills the Squirrel

I stepped out onto my porch yesterday afternoon and happily noticed “my” two squirrels chirping away in the persimmon tree. Then, as I settled into my chair, a sudden thump too loud for a persimmon and a grey-brown streak of fur hits the ground. A second like a minute passes before I hear the squealing and the struggling realizing my cat Prokofieff fell from the tree with a squirrel trapped beneath him. I take too long to shout “NO!” jump from my chair, stomp my feet and try to scare Prokofieff off the squirrel. Finally, I shout or stamp loud enough and the squirrel runs away into the neighbors’ yard. And Prokofieff runs right after him.
Every thirty seconds, it seems, I hear a horrible, unnatural trilling screech or squeak. At first I scream “NO! NO! NO!” And then I give into the guilt. For I have not managed to save the squirrel I have only prolonged his death with my cruel hero fantasy.
The logical part of my brain tried to appreciate what a wonderful day this was for Prokofieff. Prokofieff runs up that tree everyday. To somehow run up the tree, pounce on a squirrel and get both the squirrel and himself to the ground for the kill was quite a feat. But there's something unsettling about it: they’re too evenly matched yet not equally matched at all. The second squirrel watched from the tree frantically chirping the entire time.
I told Prokofieff he was an evil killer for the remainder of the day. I wondered how I would ever let him back into my bed again. I forgave him. But, it will never be the same. I’m living with a homicidal maniac.