After twelve hours mostly on the couch, being a lap for poor neglected Abby and nursing my cold, I decided I needed exercise, fresh air, and something to eat besides cheese or apples. So I hiked down to the local pub, which is a bit over a mile away. The air was pleasantly raw; the sky was grey, variegated, translucent, the light through it like textured obsidian. Halfway there, it started to rain pinhead hail, not even hard enough to deserve the overhanging branches, heavy with wet flowers.
I ordered a cider and the steak and mushroom pie, and got enough food for three people. And gained the attention of Cocoa, a beautiful jet-black, elf-faced semi-longhair with the silkiest coat I have ever touched, sleek over a whipcord body. I love a country where I can have dinner in front of a coal fire, on a cracked leather sofa with a black cat sprawled along the arm.
I'd have tucked him under my jacket if I could have figured out how to get him home.