lonely

My horse had her own kitten. The kitten was black and white. Her name was Megan. I only called her Megan when I was mad at her. I used to call her Morgan Mule. I called her Meg for short.

She had her own black and white kitten, and she got skunked. She must have thought it was her kitten.

She was running to me, because I had whistled for her. And she stopped dead in her tracks and wouldn’t move.

I walked down. I thought something had happened. And then I smelled her.

It was the end of fall, and we put out a pumpkin on the front steps for the squirrels to enjoy.

A large chubby squirrel came up and started eating it. He was not shy, or perhaps he was too awestruck by such a wonderful feast appearing for him out of the blue.

In any case, we slowly opened the front door so only the storm door, a full pane of glass, stood between us and him. We were one foot away as he continued to chew his way thru the pumpkin – to the point at which he was able to sit inside it and eat all around himself.