Monday, December 8, 2008


Bronte waits, watching out the window.

Cat makes her way over our fence, into our yard. Again.

She climbs onto our gazebo and sits in her favorite wicker chair. Head held high. Waiting.

Bronte rushes to the window. Paces.

I open the door. Bronte races out. Barks a warning. Just like yesterday.

Cat sits in the chair. Head held high. Waiting.

Bronte tracks her scent, sniffing.

She tracks Cat's scent up the gazebo stairs.

Cat sits. Head held high. Waiting.

Bronte sees Cat.

Bronte backs down the stairs.

Cat sits. Waiting.

Bronte sniffs around the yard. Around the rose bushes. Under the apple tree. Sniff, sniff, sniff.

Cat slides from the chair, saunters off the gazebo and slowly walks past Bronte, our dog, our scaredy dog. Cat stretches deep before hopping the fence.

Bronte returns to the couch to wait and watch for the return.

There's always tomorrow, girl.

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