The Cat Who Lived in a Garden
by Winter

Once upon a time there was a cat who lived in a garden, down by the shed where the daffodils grew every spring.

In the morning she'd stretch and she'd yawn, while she still remembered her dream, then she'd hunt the shrubs behind the shed for a mouse or maybe a cricket to eat. She would clean her paws with a raspy cat tongue, to make sure she looked dandy and neat. It sure wouldn't do for just anyone to see a cat unproperly preened. Sometimes she'd sit on the roof of the shed and hiss at the growler next door. He'd yap and he'd bark and he'd slobber a lot, 'til his owner would yell him to stop.

Once upon a time there was a cat who lived in a garden, in a quaint little town way out in the countryside,

In the day she would leave her cozy little home to wander the streets and the alleys, looking for food and for fun and just maybe, for the tiniest bit of mischief. She liked to hunt all the birds in the park though she was always too slow to catch one, but never the swans with their large white wings, who were mean and nasty and scary. Sometimes she'd come to a person and grant them the favour to pet her. But only for as long as it pleased her, and she had claws that would tell them enough.

Once upon a time there was a cat who lived in a garden, carefree and wild, she was queen over all she surveyed.

In the evening she'd stroll by the river, though in fairness it was barely a brook. If a fishing lad sat on the bridge with his rod, she would stop to beg for a treat. And he'd better give if he knew what was best, otherwise she was likely to steal. Once the shops were all closed and the people had gone, she would make her way back to her home. Where she'd sit all alone where the daffodils grew, and she'd look at the house in the garden, which was dark and forlorn and where nobody lived anymore.

Once upon a time there was a cat who lived in a garden, where she stayed on her own, year after year all alone.

At night she would lie in a fitful sleep, down where the daffodils grew, and that's when she'd dream her dream. Of an open door and of light and of warmth, and of other things she'd once known. Sometimes she'd dream of calloused hands, gnarly and old that would ache in the cold, yet happy to pet a little cat. Of a voice that was deep, kindly and sweet, calling a name that a cat has forgot. At times she would wake when the dream got too real, but the door to her house will not open again.

Once upon a time there was a cat who lived in a garden, down by the shed where the daffodils grew every spring.