Refuge

Willow, a mild-mannered little cat, is the target of Mrs. Beasley's un-ending and inexplicable wrath.

This ire is expressed with smacks, thumpings, growls and hisses.

[We think Mrs. B. is having a nervous breakdown.]

Willow responds by squalling loudly and running.

Storm clouds have hovered all day but the rain has 'gone around' us.

Pehaps the uneasy weather can be blamed for the crochety disposition of the cats today.

Willis can--and does--chase Willow, but in a rather lack-a-daisical, recreational manner, quite different to Mrs. B.'s attitude of closing in for a kill.

Once Willow is outside, the big 'house cats' can't nail her as she hops lightly over the cat yard fence, something they haven't attempted.

I never had a tree house.

Although I'm rather stupid about heights, I did--in my day--like to climb trees.

[OK, so I didn't go way up!]

One of my favorite spots to sit, swing my legs and have a quiet think, was an old apple tree in the remnant of neglected orchard at Grampa Mac's.  I could go along the road to the farm house, through the gate and down to the apple trees--or--I could take the path that curved along the embankment where my parents' house stood and reach the cluster of gnarly, unpruned trees by that route.

The special apple tree had a wide flattened branch which grew horizontally about 4 feet off the ground.  It was an easy clamber up to sit among the leaves.

I looked longingly at Willow in her box elder refuge this morning. All it needs is a ladder up to a small platform--just wide enough to place a folded old quilt.  Then, why not a book, a cat, and a mug of tea, all to be enjoyed in a shelter of green leaves [?]