After all this time its eyes have become completely accustomed to the pitch black. When I open the hatch and attend to basics, she will approach light let in, if gradually. Perhaps it’s for contact – I could care less, and won’t pretend. I give just enough consideration in that respect to stop her from being unable. The job is to kill mice. Something has to. Need is such a great motivation. Her noise moving around is one I can endure: this isn’t a scratching that makes the flesh crawl. I’ve provided a tray for business as I wouldn’t want precious things stored up there getting spoiled. And I’ll feed her just enough, in case the vermin run low on account of such overall efficiency. I wouldn’t dream of treating if she became ill. My father taught me that. He said the dog would lick its wounds clean to heal after leaping through our greenhouse glass, and he did, eventually. I feel this loft arrangement works both ways. For each of us. How would this cat survive if I didn’t provide?