Bloody Cat

[poliphilo]

 Marlowe is so very old and arthritic these days (or so he says) that he has to be lifted onto the bed- poor  thing. Only, looking out of the high window where I sit to write, I've just watched him stroll across the shed roof in a neighbour's garden (the one who was flying the Pride flags last week) and lower himself into the garden beyond. "I just hope you know your way back," I mutter.

Something yelps behind me. He's here again. And it's only five minutes since there were two tall fences and various other obstacles between us. I wish I knew how he did it.

Cats are con artists. Also magic.