Paw Prints in the Moonlight by Denis O'Connor Read Free Book Online

still frozen in the harsh grip of the winter snows which made being inside the cottage feel extra cosy. At times like this I often left the curtains open to look at the moon through the bare branches of the oak and mountain ash trees that graced the far end of the garden. Whenever I sat like this, with the lights switched off and without any intrusions from the radio or television, I could sense a timeless affinity with the way of life many years ago which was much simpler than that demanded by our noisy, hectic and ultra-modern world. Despite my awareness that such a life was filled with hardships that I would never have
to endure, I enjoyed indulging romantic thoughts about times past in Owl Cottage and of the people who lived here long ago.
    Some people believe that houses have a spirit which epitomizes the feelings, good or bad, of the people who have lived there previously. Perhaps this is especially true of older houses because they have had a longer time to develop their spirits. Allegedly, houses built of stone are more likely to have acquired this characteristic because of peculiar qualities which enable stone to imbibe and store strong feelings. Whatever the truth of this, I noticed from the very first time I entered Owl Cottage that I experienced a sense of calm and friendly ambience. I had never felt anything like this in the modern flats and houses I had lived in.
    The cottage always had a feel-good atmosphere about it. This feeling even extended to the garden. I could easily imagine a scenario in which hard-working ordinary family folk lived happily in this place and I felt certain the cottage retained something of their spirits. The sound of the wind in the trees, the calls of animals and birds and the crackling of the log fire seemed to link me to the people who had lived here previously. I found that these emotional vibrations, within both the cottage and the garden, had a calming effect on me, possibly because they derived from simple pleasures that had their source in nature rather than modern technology.

    All of this may well have been my very own fantasy world and yet the singing of blackbirds as dusk settled over the garden or the night sky when the moon was at its fullest evoked emotions in me similar to hearing the Northern Sinfonia play Ravel at Brinkburn Abbey, or the sight of Bamburgh Castle clothed in a wintry landscape or sail boats in the harbour at Seahouses on a warm summer evening, as viewed from the balcony of the Olde Ship Inn. All of these things are part of the charm of Northumberland.
    Toby Jug was the bonus I needed to cement my attachment to this Northumbrian world. Through observing his lust for life I was able to rediscover my lost youth and the hope of finding a place where I could experience a quality of living that fulfilled my wildest dreams.
    In such a tranquil and philosophical state of mind, it was a bonus to have a cat on my lap to stroke even if that cat was intent upon tearing my best sweater to shreds. I enjoyed watching the emergence of such instinctive patterns of behaviour in Toby Jug as he became fitter, even though my sweater became increasingly tattered as he worked through the feline ritual of preparing a nest for sleeping. He presented a comical sight. Eyes half-closed in the sheer ecstasy of the war dance, with claws sharply extended, he treaded rhythmically to the tune of his own purring until eventually, turning a half circle, he collapsed. Then, with a few additional throaty purrs to convey his contentment, he fell asleep in an instant.

    As he lay in my lap softly sleeping I could see that the bare patches of skin had responded to treatment and had just about healed. His fur now had a sheen to it, which was yet another sign of improved health, testimony to the good food he was getting and the days of intensive care, attention and love. To look at, he was nothing special compared to the chocolate-box pictures of kittens but to me he was the most remarkable