*Author’s note: I nearly had a heart attack and died, y’all.
It was 8:30-ish in the morning. Charlie was in the livingroom watching cartoons, with his snack plate in front of him (sliced banana, peanuts, pieces of Clif bar). I was in the kitchen doing the breakfast dishes.
Suddenly, out of the blue, comes a blood-curdling shriek, followed by hysterical sobbing. I run into the livingroom. Charlie is jumping up and down, crying and screaming. The door to the birdcage is wide open. Reno, the cat, is holding Lola, the cockatiel, in his mouth.
My brain slips in to slow motion.
"NOOOooooOOOooooooOOOooooo..." I yell, as I lunge forward in Bionic-Woman type *click click click* running mode. Reno (who has never so much as caught a freaking FLY in his life... or tried to catch anything else, for that matter) looks at me and takes off running, with Lola hanging limply in his mouth.
I leap into mid-air and tackle the cat.
I pry the bird out of his jaws, pretty convinced she’s dead.
Reno gives me a pissy look and walks away.
Lola bites the shit out of my finger, apparently alive and kicking and rather annoyed.
I put her back in the cage, where she calmly cleans her feathers and then resumes eating her birdseed.
Reno stalks angrily to the couch and proceeds to sulk.
Charlie is still screaming hysterically by the birdcage.
I have a short, internal conniption.
One the positive side, Charlie now refuses to go anywhere near the birdcage, as I think it scared the poop out of him.
On the negative side, Reno now has an agenda. His agenda is: Eat Bird.
Awesome.
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