I’m not a pheasant plucker…

…no really, I’m not.

We do have some pheasant feathers winging their way to us (go on then, laugh if you must) through the post.

It’s all Smoky’s fault. Not satisfied with merely toying with his DaBird and swiping it as it speeds past him, he decided to savage it. Savagely (in case anyone fancies an extra adverb here and there.)

So we’ve had to send off for some replacement feathers.

Shana found a source that is eco-friendly or veganistical or something. Basically, the poor old pheasant is not required to be deaded before it donates the odd feather or two for our kitty’s delight. I don’t know how they do it: maybe a trained operative sneaks up behind Mr Pheasant and shouts ‘Boo!’ and it loses a feather in its bid to escape.

Maybe I don’t really want to know, eh?

Anyway, as we’re not far from the river, it shouldn’t be long before the ducks start waddling along our road, so if we’re quick we might be able to grab a few mallard feathers just to vary Smoky’s playtime a little.

Even better, we could lower Smoky from our first-floor window and he could ‘surprise’ the ducks from above like a kind of feline Luftwaffe πŸ™‚ I’d have to rig up a makeshift kitty-harness but that shouldn’t be a problem. I know some excellent knots.


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