Thomas the cat: part one
Thomas had
seen better days. His fur, slightly matted, was speckled with leaves and bits
of sand.
Eyes closed,
he liked to contemplate the intricacies of life while stretched out against the
garden gate – his face propped up by the iron rods.
A cat of an
established age, his senses were dulled, and his vision poor.
The path was
his favourite spot – not only a sun trap but a great vantage point – all within
close range of his dinner bowl.
Mice and
snails would pass him by and his paws would stay still – tucked under his body
or stretched out as he lolled in a soft, monochrome heap.
Every
morning, Thomas would retreat to his spot. Unaware of what anomalies the day
would bring; occasionally glancing round his territory for trespassers and the
like.
His owner,
Beryl, loved him very much. Silver haired, she wore cobbled shoes and a knitted
beret. Her grey coat stopped just above her ankles.
Calling in
her warm, ragged companion, she’d always put out slightly too much food.
Thomas didn’t
mind.
Comments
Post a Comment