Fat cat in the sun

Spring sun floods through bare trees from its higher vantage point in the sky and paints large golden squares on each floor of our house, spilling generously over windowsills.

I walk through the kitchen in my bare feet, feel the scratches and roughened surface of the wooden floor gouged by dog claws in mad scrambles for fallen food or to chase cats or to announce unexpected visitors, feel the change in temperature as I step into that sun-painted square. It is as though I have walked into a warm puddle of water collected in a dished rock at the edge of a sun-drenched lake and I stop, almost involuntarily, to enjoy the weight of that warmth and remember after such a long, cold winter.

And Cleo who I maintain has the capacity to be dainty and graceful with her tiny white feet and her delicate features and pretty patchwork colours of dusty gray and orangey beige, sprawls in the sunshine like a great whale. Her stark white belly, wide and blinding so you can not stare for too long or you see the ghost of her image everywhere you look.