Welcome to Pheasantopia. Home of the thousands of cage-raised pheasants that escaped from the Rockport Pheasant Farm after the Snoctober storm. They are EVERYWHERE. In my back yard, on my front lawn and across the street in the recently plowed corn fields. The males seem to outnumber the females and walk around with their burnt umber chests proudly thrust forward, a perfectly even white band separating their green heads from their brown necks. They are much more beautiful than I imagined and look as though they stepped out of a Norman Rockwell illustration. Perhaps that’s because Thanksgiving is almost upon us. They are however, not the brightest of birds. How do I know this? Because dozens of them now dot the roadway flattened like Milk Duds. Standing in the front yard at 6:30 yesterday morning, I actually heard a THUD as a car flew by. “THERE GOES ANOTHER ONE, OLIVE.” Except, to our surprise, this one had apparently just been clipped by the car as it rose high and flew across my neighbor’s yard coming to rest on their driveway. Not the best place to land. Privately, I wondered how many lives this bird actually had left. Perhaps this is the same doofus who caused the early morning silence to be rudely punctuated by two drivers laying on their car horns as though they’d slumped over their steering wheels unexpectedly. Thanks, doofus. Now I’m awake. And now that Olive knows I’m awake, she’s awake too. Whether indoors or outdoors, Olive remains transfixed by Pheasantopia, her pin dot pupils radiating intense interest at whatever offenders are trespassing in our yard. The only thing funnier than watching Olive watch the pheasants is listening to Olive watch the pheasants. Hear for yourself. Turn the volume up to hear Olive perfecting her “pheasant whine.”