Cat

I've spent the morning trying, and failing, to read some Beckett. The cats were out. Not my cats, but neighbourhood pets. I was sitting in the garden with my book, watching a black and white kitty from the corner of my eye. Nothing much occurred for some minutes. Shifting position, watching dragonflies (the cat, I mean). But I persevered, and it was worth it.
The cat - I'll call him Strouvilhou for now - sauntered over to the hedge, giving no hint of the theatrical treat in store. All of a sudden, he leapt four feet into the air to claw at a white butterfly. What I found especially rewarding was the way he landed - and all cats do this - to carry on as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I must say I think I've made a new friend.