PICASSO, the pigeon, was born in a comfy nest on the roof of a hilltop house. They had a beautiful view of the mountain range because the house was three stories high. Best of all, it was too high for cats to climb on to.

Picasso's egg was the last to be hatched of the three his mom laid. He had a big brother and a big sister. They all grew up huddled together in the nest on the roof until the day came for them to learn to fly. His mother, Paloma, nudged them one by one off the roof.

Picasso's big brother was first. He flapped his wings hard. Soon he was soaring and doing somersaults in the air.

Then came Picasso's sister. She spread out her wings and glided far then circled back to the roof.

Finally, it was Picasso's turn. He looked down over the edge, and shut his eyes, frightened. He clung to the roof with all his might, but his mother gave him a very strong nudge.

"You can do it!" she shouted.

Picasso fluttered his wings. He fell more slowly, but he didn't go up. He flapped them harder, but nothing happened.

"You're doing it wrong," his brother shouted. "Look at me!"

But he was falling so fast he didn't have time to watch. Picasso crashed to the ground.

When he opened his eyes, a little girl was holding him, wrapping his leg with a bandage. He couldn't move it, and he felt very weak.

Picasso heard people talking. They put him on a table outside the house and went inside. It was dark and quiet. But Picasso couldn't sleep because of the pain.

Suddenly he heard a sound he had never heard before.

"Meow!"

He looked to see where it was coming from. It was a cat. He remembered his parents had pointed out cats to him from their nest, telling him they were dangerous creatures. But he had never seen one this close before. Somehow it had gotten into the yard, and it knew he was there.

The cat was staring up at the table. Picasso struggled to his feet and managed to hop away on his one good foot just as the cat jumped on to the table. He jumped to the top of the chair, then to the railing of the porch. From the railing he hopped on to the handle of a lawnmower and from there he hopped to the branch of a tree. From the branch of the tree he hopped to the edge of the wall.

The cat got over the chair and porch railing in one graceful leap. Then it jumped to the branch of the tree. Picasso looked down the other side of the wall. If he fell he would break his other leg. But the cat was coming closer and its claws grabbed his tail.

Picasso jumped, leaving tail feathers behind. He plunged down, and opened his wings. He was so happy to be away from the cat that he started to flap his wings up and down. Suddenly, instead of going down he was going up. He could see the cat scowling at him from below, getting smaller and smaller while the roof where his family lived got nearer and nearer.

He landed next to his sleeping mother, father, brother and sister with a thud. They woke up chirping loudly with fear. Nobody flew at night. They had looked for him until it grew dark and then they had to stop because none of them could see.

"You must be able to fly very well now, if you can fly in the dark," Picasso's father said. His brother and sister wanted to see him do it again. But his mother wouldn't let him. She told everyone to go back to sleep and wait till the sun came out to fly.

Picasso didn't care. All that mattered now was that he was back home. Tomorrow he would go flying with his family. Meanwhile he went to sleep, high on the roof safe from cats.

Raissa is a University of the Philippines Diliman graduate.