Flo is weakening, getting older. On cold nights, we let her into the basement. She is eating less, moving less, hunting less. This winter, when she wants to come in, she can come inside anytime, we’ve even set up a special place for her in the one room that gets light.

We have food and water for her, and a cat litter, and there are also plenty of mice to chase if she’s in the mood.

Barn cats are like that, if they live to be eight or nine, they are often ready to come inside. If they are lucky, they can.

Every morning, Maria and I go out into the woodshed to gather the wood for our wood stoves. Flo has made herself (with some help) a warm bed way up in the top of the shed, where I first met her, were she slept before she showed herself to us.

She came down to say hello to us, Maria greeted her with some rubs and attention. The door was open, she could have come in, but she chose to go back up to her secret place out of the wind and rain.

She doesn’t look good to me, the vet says she is just getting old. Barn cats have arduous lives, they don’t live very long. It is always nice to see Flo in the woodshed.

Barn cats accept life and death, so do I.