A mosaic of fur stretched out on the warm stone, black, tan, white, brown, a veritable jigsaw of interlocking colours, luxuriating in the midsummer sun. Glowing yellow eyes, topaz, burning in the velvet darkness of the midnight garden. Fiery jewels from distant Afghanistan.  Shadowy huntress in the moonlit churchyard, feline wraith, with the will to kill; fiercely independent in that unique feline manner. You don’t submit to ownership, or surrender to power. Enigmatic, you disappear for a day or two, just to prove your life’s your own: to take food from a neighbour or shack up in the shed next door. Too old to be romantic, to yowl in a full moon for a handsome prince to win your heart. Local tom cats have learnt to steer clear. In middle age, you have grown a little portly. Yet, this lends you presence, a certain dignity. Uncrowned Queen, you sleep among the roses, or in the deep pools of shadow beneath the pine trees. Old age begins to creep up on you. You deign to sleep on someone’s bed at night. You prefer your meat cut up for you. You sleep, dreaming of mice, rather than catching them. You’re still a fine lady, not a word about your age!