Felicity the Cat was a grumpy sort.
His name, for example, made him very crabby. He was named after the farmer’s grandmother; but he didn’t like it. He wanted a proper name like rich, famous Cats.
This March morning, he woke up and stretched out. Looking in a broken piece of mirror against the farm house wall; he smoothed down his hair making himself presentable. One annoying lock of hair would simply not sit straight.
In the mirror he spotted distant figures of Hares tearing across the field to the woods. Shrugging and sighing, he curled up in the sun.
Snoozing in the April sun, Felicity was dreaming. He was famous like Gladstone, the top mouser at Her Majesty’s Treasury in Whitehall, London. Gladstone was a proper name for a Cat; with proud white whiskers and a sombre, important mewl.
‘Good morning my good fellow!’
Felicity woke up to see Cecil the Dapper Fox.
‘What do you want Cecil?’ Felicity asked.
‘Scouting for a spot of lunch, I wondered if you fancied coming along?’ said Cecil stuffily.
‘No thanks,’ said Felicity; ‘I’m waiting on tasty Mice coming my way.’
‘Understandable and delicious; good day!’ and with that the Fox departed.
Felicity the Cat stretched and yawned widely. The May day was delightful; just the right temperature, not too hot, not too cold.
He had been having the most wonderful dream about being married to Félicette, the first and only Cat ever to go into space. They were dancing on the moon. She was attired in a magnificent ballgown.
In the field he saw Alphonse the Honest, Amiable Bull.
‘It’s too warm to write words for Alphonse today,’ said Felicity drowsily. Finding a lovely spot in the dappled shade of a silver birch tree; Felicity curled up snugly and slept soundly.