Laverne is a poser. She is not really a huntress at all. This was a fluke:
I thought she had killed this rabbit using her hunting prowess, but she must have just picked it up as a toy, her own little baby substitute, stolen to compensate for her lack of fertility*, her version of snatching a baby from a stroller left outside of the Circle K by a careless mom who thought, "Oh, I'll just run inside for a second to grab a wine cooler and a box of Twinkies. Who steals a baby, for crying out loud?" and then returns to discover that dingoes did indeed take her baby.
No, Laverne, despite her whining and "oh, let me out posture" shown here, is not a hunter.
Shirley and Laverne are eying the squirrel that so insolently perches on their tree in their yard eating their pears. They want him bad. Real bad.
But when I let Laverne out to chase said squirrel, this is what she does:
She rolls in the gravel. Or the dirt. Anything with an interesting texture. She really has no interest in hunting at all. I have to pick her up and show her the squirrel or the rabbit and she's all yeah, whatever, put me down I want to play in the dirt.
* They don't offer IVF for cats. Yet. If you had told me 20 years ago that I could buy health insurance for my cat, I would have laughed in your face. Twenty years ago, the solution for a $2,000 (more than I paid for my first car) expense for a sick pet was a blindfold and a cigarette.