Suzie peeks in the smokehouse door and sees him, shafts of light illuminating faded yellow tabby fur, dust motes from ancient roof beams flitting across his old and mostly toothless face.
“He’s a cat!” her mom had said. “God made him so he can find his own food.”
Closing the door quickly behind her, Suzie peers out the pine knotholes of her secret clubhouse to check if the coast is clear. Behind her, she hears a cracked greeting. “MMEEOOWW!!”
“SSHHH! Here Tom, old boy.” Cradling him, she pulls from underneath her jacket a can opener and a tin of tuna.