Our cat set out at night; he has somewhere to be.

I lie awake wondering where . . .

My thinking turns to dreaming, and I dream of old Ginger.

His tail raised, paws padding softly along the roads.

The roads glow with the moon’s reflection (it rained today).

He doesn’t mind – he plods on.

A rabbit stunned into place, is spotted from across the way.

Ginger’s gait coils like a concertina; claws bared.

He shifts his weight, prepared.

Then something catches his eye –

A light grows and grows until

Splat!

There goes the cat.

Ginger died; we buried him.