I’ve moved into my tiny house. I love the house. It’s very well constructed. The wind here in the Delta is so strong that at first I was afraid that even though it had survived being towed from the east to west coast, it might come unhinged by the wind. It hasn’t. It’s solid, quiet and a tranquil shelter from the strong gusts.
The cats venture out when the air is calm, but stay in when it’s blustery. We negotiate seating. I have two cats and two dogs and all five of us prefer sitting on a chair or soft spot up off the hardwood floor. Misty, my elegant female cat, claims the cushiest chair when she’s home, and I sit on a small triangular wooden stool that I brought back from India.
Smokey, my big, brave, athletic hunter, leaps from the kitchen to the loft and sleeps on my bed. The dogs, Becky and Jenny, sleep on pet beds or the toddler sofa from Toys ‘R Us. There is just enough room for all of us, but we have to think before we move – there is apt to be someone or something else in the spot we’re moving toward. We have all the comforts of a traditional house: electricity, heat, hot water, air conditioning, toilet, microwave, refrigerator/freezer, satellite TV and internet. Things I don’t need for day-to-day living are in a storage unit in town. I’m renting the land I’m living on. It’s farm land – open, flat, spacious, so much better than an apartment.