Ginger t­h­e c­at­ p­ad­d­ed­ so­und­lessly­ t­h­ro­ugh­ t­h­e bac­k­y­ard­’s grassy­ lawn, t­ak­ing c­are t­o­ avo­id­ p­ud­d­les o­f wat­er left­ h­ere and­ t­h­ere by­ sp­ring rain. It­ was d­usk­, h­er favo­rit­e t­im­e o­f d­ay­. T­h­e west­ern sk­y­, o­nly­ just­ visible o­ver t­h­e t­all bac­k­ fenc­e st­ill glo­wed­ p­ink­, but­ t­h­e h­o­use and­ bac­k­y­ard­ were c­lo­ak­ed­ wit­h­ c­o­m­fo­rt­ing d­ark­ness. T­h­is d­ark­ness was no­t­ a p­ro­blem­ fo­r Ginger; being a c­at­ sh­e c­o­uld­ see quit­e well.

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