You’re sitting next to me, sniffing the air, ears pricked up. Was there an untoward sound in the neighbourhood? You get up, stretch, ask to have your chin scratched. Then you sigh, groan and lie down, letting the late summer sun wash over your fur. Not too hot, not too cold. Perfect. You sigh again. Its just another day to you, but for us, its a big deal. You are 10. Happy Birthday, Prune.
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