Bootsie want’s to eat Phil.
You know, Phil the pheasant. Phil the rather randy pheasant who chases those poor hens all around the food dish, and wants to take them on overnight dates, that Phil. Now, I’ve seen Phil take out a crow who thought he should eat before Phil, and even though it was a big crow, it had no chance. Phil won, big time. In fact Bootsie has no chance, I’ve seen Phil in his Kung Fu fighting mode [I bet it was pheasants who invented kung Fu!] and Bootsie had NO chance at all, ever.
Even if Phil the pheasant had one leg wangled above his head the Boo has no chance.
But the doves, and the quail you know the cute little birds that all share part of one bird brain together, yes, that teeny tiny brain, all fragmented among them… they don’t stand a chance. They are dumb, sincerely, and stupidly dumb, [but cute].
And we don’t eat our friends … ”Boo remember birds are our friends, and you know how Jane feels about eating our friends.” Right? Boo? Where are you? “PUT THE BIRD DOWN!” “Boo, bad, bad, kitty, we don’t eat our friends, and it’s impolite to burp at me, just because you have feathers in your mouth.” Just kidding… Boo doesn’t get to go out when the birds are eating at the feeder, he has to wait.
Which is why I got up before 7 this morning, to distract one howling kitty who was at the window, determined to be let loose in a flock of cute, but dumb birds of a feather. I raised my kitty right, we don’t eat our feathered friends… it’s just a lesson that’s not sticking too well. Or maybe he can’t hear me over the rustling sound of feathers, karate chops, squawks, and chirps. “And everybody was kung Fu fighting… dada, da, da, dunt, dunt da da dun.” I apologize for the quality of these shots, but it happened so quickly I couldn’t get anything better.
