Everyday at five-o’clock, the sun would begin to fall. The birds flew from their posts, where they had pecked all day long into soil. Children in schools were glad to be going home. And last but not at all least, traces of a sunset might be seen glinting across the sky.
Tucked away in a suburb, in a street down a lane, lived the Ferginsons. But this story isn’t about them, but rather the true owner of their home -their cat.
…A grey cat slept in front of a fireplace, that coiled and spat ash and flame. Beneath her was a crimson rug that had fibres, which sprung up against the left side of her furry tummy. She leaned her whiskers into her paws, while stretching onto her back. She had to cover an eye to block the awful light. She hated light most of all. Actually, she almost hated light as much as their neighbour’s sprinklers, or the little girl who grabbed at her tail, or vitamins- yuck.
The crackling fireplace heated the air; which flew and warmed her to the tips of her toes. She had begun to dream of fluttery daisies and fresh, crisp grass- all of which she liked to eat- when a kettle whistled. The cat’s ears flickered at the interruption. A couch creaked as the couple lay asleep with their movie still in motion onscreen of the magic square, a little moth nestled itself near the glow of the lamp and a bell sounded as an unexpected visitor arrived at the house.