Squash and squeeze

For some reason the two legs played  strange games of squash and squeeze yesterday.First they played "How many birds can Daf fit into a goose?" The answer? A snipe, a woodcock ( She was a bit upset by that until She ate a bit!) a teal, a partiridge and a pheasant.
Next they played "How many dogs can ypou fit into a small cottage and the answer to that was six.

Daf had a long conversation with Max about catching birds and stuffing them into things while Cadog ( the new puppy) cuddled on his lap.

Later we found peace and quiet on the kitchen table, just me and Elmo and Maurice.

 

Then She went off to sleep in Her studio, dreams guarded by not one but two Bagpusses, like sphinxes, either side of the pillows.

 

The Little Dog Laughed to See Such Fun

Brothers

Maurice, helping

In the morning Elmo walked wih Her. In the evening it was my turn to help with the work. So I slept and dreamed and curled while She scribbled in a book. She calls that work. 
In Her studio there is a new working place, though it does look very like a bed. Cleverly designed, She says, for it has a place for a wine glass to balance on a corner.

 

At the turning of the day

Before the coming of the light we walked, up the green lane to the top of the hill then over the hill and far away.

 

In places pockets of hoar frost still hung on the winter leaves. The great muckle cow had frozen tears of ice. The world was hushed. Only the sound of birds' wings and a waiting.

We walked to the ruins of the village where old cold stones stood and the ghosts of cats long gone prowled. Now the only bright flame in the chimney fawr was the ginger fur of me. Once cats curled and people sat, talking and whittling at Welsh love spoons, gifts for Christmas at a time when the feast would be sparce, for all but the cats whose work it was to keep rats from the winter food stores.

 

On top of the hill the wild ponies were curious.

 

Home again. It had been a walk of winter birds. Snipe and woodcock that flew from thefeet almost at the moment you stepped on them. Ravens corkscrewing the air on ragged black wings. Only the memory of larksong. Wren and linnet, lapwing and curlew, mounrful.

 

Back home, fire lit, time now to curl and dream and run with the ghost cats by their cold ghost fires in the winter stone walls of Maes y Mynydd.

Remembering Kiffer

There are times when the cats move aside and let me blog. This is one such time. They are all lazy and draped over furniture, warm by the fire while outside rain hammers down.

Today I was sent a photograph of a book. It was only when I looked properly at the photo I saw that the book in the photo, 'Talk to the Tail', is dedicated to Jeanne  Francis, and Kiffer.

Beautiful Kiffer. He wasn't here with us for long. He loved Tom Cox and would happily have set off on adventures to Norfolk with Tom. I wish I had let him go.

The cats and I are very proud and pleased that he has a book dedicated to him, especialy as, if it is anywhere near as good as the last one, Under the Paw, it will be a very fine book indeed.

Sad, but lovely looking through photos of Kiff. He was a good cat.

Helping paws

Down at the mill, and even though the raffle is over signed books are still selling well, both at the mill itself and online, so we sent Her off to sign some more and also sent instructions to the mill cats, to help Her out.

 

Tired after all the hard work, Heddle rested a while and checked that the books fit in the box.