The prodigal pied cat

In the midnight moonlit moment She leant against Mr Griffiths's home and whispered to the stone.
We have not seen Nadolig since the first Sunday after Mr Griffiths was taken into the hospital, far away, long ago, and She worried that maybe he had found a new home, a new fire, a new lap. Or maybe the snow was too much and too cold for him.
" Not much longer now. Next week he will come back." We prowled by her side, coats shining with starlight.
" Send word around, through the stones and the rocks, by the birds and the trees. He is coming back. Please, tell Nadolig, wherever he is."

So today, such joy as She looked up from Her washing up (not a thing She usually finds joy in) and there, outside the window, pied and beautiful against the emerald green of the ivy leaves, Nadolig. Out She rushed with a plate of food, the nearest plate to hand, and for Nadolig a feast fit for a prodigal cat, and for the stones and the rocks, the birds and the leaves a whispered thank you.