Feral He slides low along the cracked pavement, barely registers the heat as he hunts the sparrow which picks at crumbs below the taverna table. Later he washes in the shade, carefully licks blood from his claws before a languid stretch and a doze. Although feral, he knows to accept strokes from tourists, cosies up to the chef who’ll toss titbits from the kitchen. His is the hundredth generation of cats who have never known an owner; this whitewashed town is his. Ben Banyard
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