Broken Feathers

He plays with them—relentlessly, slipping and sliding on the hardwood, running in a circle until he’s dizzy, then flopping over on his side to chomp down on his prey. The selection of peacock feathers has dwindled to only a couple now. Each time we pluck a nice long, “fresh” one from the bunch, it’s not long until it, too, is snapped in half, only to dangle from Rocky’s mouth—dead.

Rocky, our little rescue cat, has developed his routine with the feathers. Each morning, he waits patiently on the couch hoping for a new feather. The old ones are still fun, but a long, unbroken toy that sweeps across the hardwood in a lovely blue-green arch, creates a frenzy in him. He seems to go a bit insane as he dives and leaps for the big bird, never tiring of the circle chase. His little claws make a clicky sound on the wood as he runs, making me laugh aloud at his antics. All the world is his playground.




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