There are two cats at home. Pomegranate is a civet flower brought back from the canteen five years ago. She is reserved and measured. She rubs her twice at a fixed time every day to show "I still remember you." Twenty-eight was the orange cat I met at the bus stop after the epidemic was lifted. It followed him three streets to the gate of the community. The security guard said, "I can see it."
The days were so peaceful and peaceful - I went to work to take care of the fourth-grade kids to read their texts and collect the dinosaur encyclopedia. When I got home from get off work, I was stepped on by Erba and scrutinized by Pomegranate. I ate Sichuan food with my best friend Xiaotang on weekends and listened to her advice to find a partner. I had a video chat with my parents at night, and my mother urged marriage without saying that word. Until a calico cat appeared under the crooked neck tree at the gate of the community.
Concept: Not all cats come home, but every one deserves a name. Life is very light, cats are very heavy, and the days are slowly unfolding with the flying cat hair.