Small birds have finally discovered the birdfeeder, and invaded the patio, to my delight and James's mild trepidation. (I think he saw "The Birds" at a formative age.) I think they're house finches. They have red heads and breasts to varying degrees and look finch-like. At some point, I will lurk with a camera long enough to get photos of the little critters for ease of identification. James is secretly convinced that if we encourage them, they were take over, drill through the glass, kill us in our beds, and use our apartment as a staging ground for a feline internment camp, forcing our cats to work as slave labor in the mines. I wanted to know where, exactly, in a second floor apartment the finches would find a mine, to which he said, darkly, "There's ALWAYS a mine," and returned to work.
The cats, unconcerned by their future as miners, are glued to the patio door with jaw-chattering intensity. I'm not sure if it's like Cat TV, or if it's driving them insane, but hey, whatever keeps 'em entertained.