That Tree, that cat

The boys love this tree. In every garden we end up with one particular tree that has it all. In this garden it's this one. My favourite trees are the two that hold up the hammock (for obvious lazy reasons) and my dh's favourite trees are the ones he cuts down to turn into something else - don't worry he is not a maniac (defined by Felix as someone with an axe), he just takes little ones from the 'wood' on the slope behind our house where everything needs, coppicing (I think that's the right term).



This tree has a swing and Isaac's recent invention, a knotted climbing rope with a loop for climbing and swinging, Indiana Jones style. Last year it was also the tree which was used as a tightrope support for Circus Boy Isaac.





And this was where a mini drama began yesterday. I am hanging the washing, The Beauty is 'trapped' (happily - need I say that?) and playing inside the netted trampoline and the boys are in The Tree. The cat appears and starts in with the fun. In fact he was high as a kite (eating those 'shrooms in yonder field perhaps?) he dashed up and down the trunks, ran, leaped, chased the end of Isaac's rope - behaving like a mad child-cat, which he is.



We all giggled and snorted and egged on his silliness. The boys followed him into the Cat Den where he likes to hide and wait for the chickens, then he leaped out at them; always good for a laugh when you happen to be a cat. Only today one mad chicken let out a mad Bo-wak! (Over) shot into the air and landed with a plop 2-3 metres below us in the stream (our garden has a very strange landscape).



It was stuck. On a rock 'island' in the middle of the stream. And so, declaring himself The Chicken Saver, Isaac donned wellies and lept into action. By the time he was down there, our cheering and cajoling (I like to think) had got the chook onto the far side of the tangled bank. And Isaac saved it (although the way it pecked at him you'd think it didn't want to be saved).





But the cat had not finished with us yet. For the second time in a week it brought into the house (a mere hour later) a wee mouse it was playing you-are-almost-dead-but-not-quite with. There was a moose-loose aboot this hoose (we all chanted) and ran outside for a good three hours until quivering (me) we dared to venture in to find the cat. Asleep. And no sign of the mouse.



I fear there may still be a moose loose aboot this hoose. I'm not telling my mum. Or she'll NEVER visit.