The little chickadee Vick found yesterday afternoon, that obviously hit the picture window out front, was doing great this morning. We kept it in a bird cage over night in the bathroom, away from the cats downstairs here. We provided it with seed and water and a cover over the cage. This morning I yelled up the steps to Vick that it could be released today, because it was hopping all over the place, eating seeds and hanging upside down from the roof of the cage trying to get out. Ten minutes later, Vick came down dressed and ready to release the chickadee. She let the dogs out the sliding glass door and went into the bathroom to find an empty bird cage, and the little chickadee drowned in the commode! It had pushed the heavy, spring loaded door open and escaped. That upset us both greatly... me more so, for I hadn't closed the lid to the commode when I went in there.... and because it had done so well and could have been released.
NOW...as I write this, I heard screaming coming from under my chair, where I looked to find Henrietta Pŭtty Cat, with a little finch in a death grip. I immediately grabbed Pŭtty by the scruff of the neck and picked up the little bird, passing it to Vick, to take out and release. Unfortunately, even though the little guy flew away and up into the trees, we both found bright red blood on our hands from it. Obviously Pŭtty’s bite had punctured the little bird’s lungs and it will probably die anyway. Sometimes I hate cats. They are like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde... nice and purring one second and then a snarling ball of fur, claws and teeth wielding death to any creature in it’s path.
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