The rat that lives in the garden across the street has just scuttled under the fence and into his accustomed hole beneath a ruffled tablecloth on the patio. And who should come sauntering down the street behind him, but the household cat, returned from her walkabout? Let the drama begin.
On the way home in a chilling drizzle tonight, I passed the auto repair shop near home. There was a pickup truck parked diagonally in the lot, with the doors open. As I walked past, a little girl ran around the front of the truck, hell for leather, with a scrappy blonde ponytail streaming out behind her, and braces glinting in the streetlight. She circled around again and again, silent and swift, but grinning, with dad chasing her half a truck-length behind, while mom negotiated with the mechanic.