It ' is my life. That are our life.

Part two. Hit. The close intertwining of relationships and destinies within neighbors may seem unexpected to the casual glance of an outside observer. And they turn out to be fateful... From an unexpected knock, the roar of the morning, waking up early, you will see the top of a mighty old poplar on the ground under your window and you will be surprised, remembering what happened?... Yesterday evening, you remember then, and the trunk, and the crown of the tree were in their usual place, high up, far away, near the faded blue sky. The branches and crown, just yesterday, greeted passers-by with the swaying of branches and a drawn-out noise. Now, with sighs similar to a groan, the trees folded in parts and, without warning, lay down on the pavement in round, even cuts. Coarse and small sawdust flew around the cuts. And the saw cuts themselves were intended for export, so that the outbuildings of the neighbors and their other property would not be damaged. Then came the Age of the Fight against Stray Cats. Cats needed shelter, feeding, care and warmth. Cats could be useful, since along with the cold and autumn, the ubiquitous sneaks rushed from basements and sheds into houses: mice and rats. The Closed General Meeting of the Elected and Opinionated Residents of the House decided: “We are getting rid of cats in the yard.” The tiny white kitten didn't know this. He was dying, having accidentally fallen out of a window. I walked past, not noticing strangers, crushed by the collective, public, opinion of my neighbors and their decision to cruelly expel cats from the yard. That’s why my husband noticed the kitten. “Look,” the Man told me. - It's sitting. Let's take it home? - I looked closely. And if I hadn’t been so intimidated by my neighbors, I would definitely have taken the kitten and helped him. Then I thought and walked past. There are people appointed by fate itself to preserve and preserve the offended and the little. And forever now I know that my courage was not enough to take the wounded and exhausted feline teenager, to protect, to help. The old neighbor turned out to be better. He told me, often blinking his round, slightly frightened eyes: “I’m walking past, I see a kitten sitting.” He probably fell out of the window. His chest turned brownish - orange from dried blood. I picked up the kitten, took it in my arms, picked out the dried lumps with my fingers, and brought it into the yard. A cat has many lives. Remembering my sins and cowardice, I walked across the entire yard with a cup of milk. The kitten refused milk. But by evening I changed my mind and ate half a bowl of milk. He began to purr and clean himself. A little fluffed up and freshened up. I began to hope that our foundling would survive. After six in the evening, another neighbor returned from work and walked around the yard. He looked at the kitten, called his wife and called the child. - My kitty! - Their one-and-a-half-year-old only daughter rushed to the little creature. Her father held her back, didn’t let her near the kitten, and listened to the old neighbor’s explanation that he had picked up the kitten and was leaving. - This is our cat. - Father and neighbor said. - He got lost two days ago. We thought it had been stolen. You see, he was found and returned to the yard. I returned to my household chores, reassured. And I remembered how proud my neighbors’ family were of their Angora, purebred cat, acquired at a great price. The next day the kitten was not in the yard. I asked my old neighbor. He didn't know anything. A little timidly, she approached the neighbor’s family with questions. It was not curiosity that drove me, the desire to find out the whole cat - teenage story, to rejoice at its successful completion, a happy and correct end. - We didn’t take this sick kitten home. - Shaking fluff and feathers from an old pillow into a new pillowcase in the presence of a neighbor and her own husband, his wife explained. - We have a small child. Gets sick often. The kitten is now sick. We took him to work with my husband. And they were now left to live there in the yard, near work. ...Alas, wasn’t it like that in the beginning? Arriving in the middle of the night in the Pharisees’ city, the tunic was divided by several soldiers, they fought, and the lots were furiously cast. Not knowing the One who was crucified, Neither the Miracle of God, nor His Sorrow. The eighteenth-century English poet Keats wrote. And he spoke in his poems about how Ordinary Life History is repeated over and over again and in our time is constantly reproduced...