Birdsong and sunshine

On another blue sky day, in the early morning, we sit just outside the bedroom while the rest of the house is sleeping, and together we take some time to listen to the birds singing the sun to rise, a beautiful song that each day wraps itself around the world and enables this everyday miracle to happen.

Tired woman

On Friday She abandoned us to the care of the building men and drove away again to Tenby. She came home too tired to cuddle a cat and then today off She went again. It would seem that She is making an exhibition of herself again. All the paintings can be seen on a long page on Her website by clicking on the link that is these words.
So, gather up your two legged human and make sure they have in hand a glass of fine wine and sit on their laps and take them to a virtual opening of Gold, paintings and illustrations by Jackie Morris, beautiful jewelery by Sara Lloyd-Morris.

Counting birds

Today when we were walking we saw a kestrel, two choughs, three buzzards and four ravens.

We sat on the high rock above home and helped Her to think for a while.

As we walked back down the hill we could hear hammering and banging and sawing.

Back home and in the evening we were first a ginger blanket of fur for Her, and then a pile of sleeping purring.

Hunting cat

Builders and toys for cats

Pixie decides that despite the noise builders are good. They have put up a climbing frame for all the cats....

which is good for sitting on and looking for mice....

and scratching.
They have also made a hole in her roof.

Across paths made by hooves and the tracks of badgers

Early and before the noise makers arrive we headed off and up and over the hill, and the farmyard was full of mud.

Excited sheep watched as we passed, lambs fat with early spring grass. We were hunting for violets.

On the wall where the violets grow we found none yet, but the dull light made our orange coats glow like the heart of a fire.

The wind was rising as we climbed to the top, new low growing gorse harsh beneath our paws, low cloud, beautiful, like the sheen on old, neglected pearls.

No buds show yet on the twisted weave of the hawthorn tree, planted a century ago by a bird, in a cleft in the rock.

The path home was worn wide, not by the feet of the two legs for few walk here this time of year, but by the small hooves of wild ponies. The ponies are round as round and we wait and watch for the first small foal.

War of the dog bed escalates

Cat's in the dog bed
Where you going to go?
On to the sofa'
No, no, no.

Floss: Do you think She has noticed the mud bit?
Rosie: Shush. I think She's looking at us. Anyway, mud bit is from Her boots. Sand bit is from me.

Stealing the cats' blog

We have just walked together in the dark of a cloud filled full moon night, around the bounds of the village before sleep.
I cannot express how quietly delighted I feel to see lights shining through the patterned curtains of Glyn's house, to know that he is there in his house filled with memories, safe and well.
Across the fields foxes are barking their eerie starlight barking calls and as we walk our shadows are made by the light from Glyn's house.

Worrying

A few days ago She went round to visit Mr Griffiths and he seemed distracted. She was worried as he had not shaved and She had never seen him unshaven before.She fussed and worried about whether to phone someone, get the doctor, what to do.
Then in the morning Nadolig was outside the cat flap. This is unusual. He never comes around now, though sometimes we visit.
So, off She went to see how he was.
Turned out he was in fine form, and we could have told Her that!
Just lost his shaver!

If I sit on it.....

...they can't move it. Not for a while anyway. It is warm over the fire. All other cats have taken to Hannah's bed so that it looks as if it has a quilt made of cats covering it. At 4.30 they go, the noisy ones, and we all come out and go check on what has been going on. Today we are told they will make a hole in the roof so we will get nearer to the little people of the air.

Best not to frighten the builders.

Jackie: Hi Pixie. Was just checking my emails before the builders come.
Pixie: They're not coming again are they? They have made a lovely hole in the ceiling. What else is there for them to do? They are so noisy.
Jackie: They are going to be here for a while, sweet ginger.
Pixie: Oh.

Jackie: Anyway, sweet thing, how are you feeling?
Pixie: Good, thank you, but all the dust makes me sneeze. Will they be here for more than a week?
Jackie: For a few moons. But at the end of their time here there will be a new fire, and a new mantle shelf for cats to sit upon, and a new game for cats to play called ' climb on the roof and in through the windows, when She's not looking, creep into Her studio and hide'.
Pixie: Sounds good. And will there be mice?
Jackie: Shush now, here they come again. Don't want them to think we are talking about them and best not to let on that you can speak either. Might frighten them.
Pixie: Nadolig was here earlier. Go and see if Mr G is ok.

Kiffer's bed.

I have told you before, and I do not care what you say, dog bed or no dog bed, this is now MY bed.

Promises of dreams.

It is still. No street light orange disturbs the silver moonlight night. Clouds dapple the sky. Stars are dimmed by moon's brightness. No wind disturbs the sleeping birds as they huddle in branches budding with spring blossoms. The sea sings her distant shore song. A fox hunts geese, putting them to flight in the silver night. Their alarm call rings like a bell across the land and is answered by the goodnight song of Fred, Rosie's brother as he sings her a lullaby across the moor, over fields of daffodils. She lifts her head to listen and her nose reads the night like eyes read words on a page.
The geese settle. Moonshadows move across the path where each stone, each blade of grass is etched in silver light. The starlight barking serenade mingles with the song of the sea as we walk back into the house where the fire glows.
The night is peaceful, beautiful and bursting with promises of dreams.
Tomorrow begins The Hare Moon.

Kiffer, blogging

Rosie's handsome brother

Out of the door and off up the hill, but at Mr Griffith's house we found that another dog had come to visit. It was Fred, from the daffodil farm, Rosie's brother.
He works all day on the farm, but for a short time, while the barley was being turned, he came for a walk.

Up the green lane and over the hill he and Rosie ran and tumbled and maybe remembered being tiny puppies, together in the big shed of straw, when their legs were short and their world was dark and cosy.

They ran and they danced and they tumbled and turned until weary they sank to the green grass to a rest for a while on the top of the hill.

Then off again they galloped, past the badger sets and horses and down the green lane where the farmer was waiting. Fred went back to work, and the dogs came home to where the cat was waiting by the broken gate.

Ancient Ginger

On the wall of an Egyptian tomb of sculptor, Nebamun, a ginger cat catches birds as it hunts with its human. Still bright in its ginger glory the cat has waited through centuries, frozen with its birds in time.

Washing up with Rosie

Big cat walking

A case of mistaken identity

Elmo:
This is a house of ginger.
So there we were, in the kitchen, waiting for food, circling like sharks, and there She is, chatting away. Pixie has been ill and She has been shoving those pill things down her. After the pill thing The Pixie gets a sort of small bottle of milk, and she lies in Her arms like a baby, paws round the bottle and laps her pink tongue on the cool, white, beautiful milk.
So, I'm watching and She scoops up a cat, and it wriggles and squirms and She think, oh, Pixie is much better, and she gets this pill and shoves it down the cats throat, and the cat looks cross. Very cross, but nothing compared to when She tips it over onto its back like a baby and tries to feed it milk from a bottle. All hell breaks loose. Bottle and cat go flying and words a cat should never utter turn the air as blue as Rosie's paws.
Now if that had been me I would have been quiet until I had got the milk, but Maurice is Maurice.
She looked down, and there was Pixie, and the rest of us. What are you doing? All eyes accusing. People often say "How can you tell them apart?"
"It's obvious when you know them and love them," She says.
"****************!!!!!" to that," says Maurice!


I would like to report that Pixie is seeming much better. She has to take her to see the vet again, just to be sure, but there is no green slime that so upsets a cat, few sneezes and no wheezes. Pixie says many thanks for all the good wishes. She is a polite cat. Much more polite than Maurice!

Rosie's menu, or red handed.

It has been a while since I have confessed. Now seems like a good time.
Of late I have been mostly eating:
A biro
A notebook in which was written stories by Her ( in the dog house for that one!)
A shoe
or maybe two
A compact disc case
or maybe a few
A wrapper for a chocolate bar
A sweet or maybe more
Some bread
Some biscuits
Dog food
Cat food
Sheep poo
Rabbit poo
A rubber ball
Some paper bags
Hannah's camera (well, a small part of it and just as well it wasn't Her's or I would be skinless now!)
A box
A wooden spoon
A stick
A boot
Some coal
A blue bear
The leg of a chair
The ink cartridge from a computer 9hmmm... tasty!)
A black pen
And a blue pen.
I think it was the blue pen that gave it away.
Caught, blue pawed.