There Is A Song Thrush: In the garden most days. A proud looking bird with his chest thrust out, looking for food for his children. And there are dozens of snail shells dotted around, usually left on or beside the path, or a paving slab; on which he has smashed them open.
Often, I smile, imagining him as an aircraft, but instead of having the enemey's logo painted on his fuselage designating his 'kills,' if he had snails, he would have achieved two or three hundred by now. Maybe each of the brown dots on his yellow chest is one such?
And with this marvellous creature doing this to feed his young, the garden snail population is decreasing, so I am not complaining.