Not a bird, but just as fun.

Tonya and I have a cat named Toby.

Saying he is an energetic kitty is like saying Conan O'Brien is a little tall.

Both of these are only halfway true. Some days Toby could power a small city. And Conan does not stand up from his chair so much as he unfolds from it.

Unfortunately for things that are not molded of one solid piece of metal, Toby's exuberance often gets away from him and settles into something fragile. Often that something fragile is our other cat, Oscar.

So we decided we needed to entertain Toby better (thinking that we might drain some of his energy for him, before he drained it on, say, my head while taking a nap.) We got him numerous toys to chase and bite and thrash. Most of these ended up under the couch or lost to the eternity that is the underneath of our cabinetry. But one has remained. It is a collection of unnaturally colored feathers on the end of string. This string is in turn on the end of a very flexible stick. When you move the stick, the collection of feathers flits about in a very convincing bird impression. This impression is especially award-worthy to Toby, a life-long house cat.

But for the Tobes, this is no impression. It is life and death. It is the hunt. It is the pride of bringing home the bacon. Or collection of neon-infused feathers.

This toy is so precious to him I have to keep it in the one place in the house where cats aren't allowed, my room (I have a lot of instruments which are apparently marked with some invisible cat message saying, "knock me over. Then sleep on me.") So whenever Toby starts getting a little enthusiastic about the DVDs, I break out the bird. Toby locks on, and for as long as he isn't wheezing, we play. I try to make it as bird like as possible, throwing it around like the poor things you see trapped in Wal-Mart. Toby pursues with what can only be called reckless abandon. Except for when it is called insane intensity. Have you ever seen a cat do a triple back flip? I have. All the while with teeth bared, making a growling noise that sounds like it is coming from the basement. Once he catches it, he tries to get away from me to enjoy the kill. But I have to follow him to prevent that act (Oscar actually ate one of the feathers the other day. Later, the cat-box was AWESOME). So he marches around the house, breathing heavily, while I trail behind him with the rest of the apparatus in my hand. Every once in awhile he'll look back at me, growl, and pick up the pace. Finally the bird part will break away from the rest, and he'll loose interest. Then I pick it up, and the game starts all over again. We do this until:

1) he can't chase it anymore as evidenced by the old man sound coming from my cat
2) I can't make it go anymore as evidenced by the old man sound coming from my chest
3) Oscar attempts to enter the fray and ends up under the coffee table
4) Toby flies across the room in an apparent attempt to crash through the wall like a cartoon. Seriously. Cat-shaped hole.

I then put the not-bird back in my room, wedged between my sitar and dulcimer. Toby then staggers to the nearest thing he is not supposed to sleep on, and crashes. Right now he is sleeping on my computer bag.

Having cats is not boring. Sneezy, yes. But not boring.

I hope everyone is well!
Peace,
Joe