Ah... Saturday. A sleep-in to 9 o'clock is precious.

Stayed up late, and fell asleep on the couch, crawled into bed at 4:00AM to find Velvet peacefully sleeping on my side of the bed, head on the pillow. Bless her. I crawled in the other side, and fell into the gentle arms of Morpheus.

I awoke at nine, no cats in sight except Jumbo Velvet ZZZing by my side. Closed my eyes, and she gave me a *meooow!* (Good Morning!).

Then there was a gentle breeze by my face, and what seemed like a flutter of curtains, and two warm spots appeared on my forehead, followed by a third warm spot.

Hold on!

I have blinds, no drapes?!

*Cheep Cheep!!*... Two of the warm spots disappeared, the third one stayed.

A bird just pooped on my head!

Jacques and Sandrine got out!!

A yowl from Cleo, and chattering like I have not heard in several years came from my den. The crash of several thousand dollars of radio equipment followed.

I leaped up, and wiped my forehead with my bare hand, smearing budgie poop all over.

Damnit, the cage door got open! I must not have latched it properly last night when I gave them new water! All hatreds between cats were forgiven; they were on the hunt, a catpack.

Wolfpack! Catpack! Napsack! Hatrack! Hatchback!

Holy Hell and Sweet Jesus on a Ferriswheel! Bella was trying to pick off Jacques from the window ledge, tearing down my hard sought after poster of "birds of the world" and tearing it to shreds. My Ham Radio station was a pile of wires and dials on the floor, and looked like a plane crash!

Saucy Sandrine was dive-bombing Cleo, who was wild-eyed with killing lust, her fangs gleaming, tail puffed out, and eyes dilated so that you could not see their colour. This was the moment she has lived for, watching these birds in that bloody cage all these years... and NOW she will make a KILL!!!

Tippy sat and watched.

I grabbed "La Belle Puss" and threw her (literally) in the bathroom and closed the door, ignoring the scratching an biting she was giving me, then corralled "The Vet", an easier job, and put her in the spare room and shut the door. Bella, sensing the fight was over, ran off as I swore at her.

Tipper sat and watched this.

Damage control. Closed the door to the den, and slipped down to the floor, naked, and out of breath, bird poop smeared on my arm and face, the cheeky cheeps of the birds echoing off the walls.

The birds had won.

No cat is even talking to me now, except Tippy, who is curled up to my left in Velvet's spot, very, very happy.

I would say he won, not the birds.

The Birds. Could Hitchcock have figured this?

Copyright © Bill Mason
November 20, 2002