You ask, do I walk where The White Cat walks?
Well, yes. Not always, but sometimes. Today I did. The weather was warm, the sky blue, and the little people of the air were restless with autumn. Cobwebs hung across the grass. We walked up the hill, together. Come with us.
The sheep have drawn pathways with their flock feet, nibbled the grass short so walking is easy. And the light is so strange that the distant city seems close.
By the waystone The White Cat rested in the shadow. I ran ahead, with my dog, Bella.
At times I am almost invisible, my coat echoes the lichen dappled rock, camouflaged cat, small leopard on stones.
I run over the rocks, hidden in the landscape, listening for bird call, scenting the salt sea.
Yes, I walk with The White Cat, sometimes we sit close, sharing the wildness and the warmth of the sunshine.
I show The White Cat the wild water pools where a cat can drink on a warm walking morning.
He wanders over to the edge of the rock, following the wild trails of small footed creatures.
Then he sits in a warm place where years ago two ginger cats sat and conversed and rested from walking. He can feel their spirit, here in this place. They loved this land too. It belonged to them.
Home through the bracken, light shining in silver fur, and on the way home a dandelion clock marks time well spent, walking with small cats.
The White Cat talked with the sheepdog, saying, this is your job, dog, rounding up sheep. But cats and dogs stayed close while the sheep watched us walking and we went home to find the golden cat, curled up and dreaming with Elmo beside him in a great pool of sunshine.
So, yes, I go walking, sometimes with The White Cat, over the hill and far away.
Lady Spittifer of Silverstorm.