Mattie was always losing her hat.
In the old days, it would sit atop her broom in the corner, Cat curled up in the brush content and plump from a successful mousing spree.
Mattie didn’t like the new ways. Things weren’t the same, traditions were lost, and her hat joined them on numerous occasions.
Cat was useless at finding it, having adopted the box the new hoover came in for her bed.
The hat was Mattie’s saving grace, a reminder of her roots and who she was. It had belonged to her great granpappy, and he’d lived to be two hundred and two!
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