Every now and then, the owl in the bottle pretends to be solid. It presses its wandering eyes against the inner surface of the glass, watchful and eager, searching the room for prey beyond its reach. Eventually, the twin orbs tire of their vigil and swirl away, back into the pool of liquid feathers from which they emerged.
There are no internal organs to be found within, though talons and a beak occasionally make themselves known. Snow-colored feathers take up most of the volume, glistening as they flow through one another milkily. Sometimes there are bones, though they do not belong to the owl itself; live rodents must be dropped into the container at regular intervals in order for the organism to survive.
Whenever the jar opens, the bird’s feathers ripple wildly, and its few defining features leap toward the lid in expectation. Any prey that so much as touches this fluid is entirely swallowed in seconds, and not a single drop of blood is seen from the outside. The process is smooth, efficient, and completely silent (though it has been radically altered in biological structure, there are some traits that the creature never loses). A well-fed owl can even outgrow its bottle, at which time it needs to be poured into another.
If two deconstructed owls are combined into the same container, they can never be separated. When this happens, they blend together into a single amoebic organism, four-eyed and four-taloned, with beaks that work in tandem to devour the same dinner. Though most owners never mix more than two, there seems to be no limit on how many owls can share a single body, as long as they remain properly housed and fed. Any attempt to partition this ooze into more than one parliament results in death for the entire system.
While a mixture of owls is more expensive to maintain overall, it can also be very rewarding; if the owner is lucky, after several months of successful combination, a single, delicate egg will float to the surface.