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.