It has been a sweet evening for the last cat. Waking from her nap, she yawned and stretched and bathed, then had a snack and went out to the front yard where she snooped in bushes and munched some grass, stalked small insects and manicured her claws on a tree trunk. Then she hopped up onto the brick ledge that juts from the front porch and sprawled en couchant like a miniature of one of those lions that decorate the steps of a public library, surveying her sunny world. That world is filled with lawn sprinklers and darting birds, blooming oleander bushes and buzzing bees. Spring goes on as though all were right with the world. A monotonous bird repeats its single-note call over and over like a town crier with nothing new to say. The still air lies heavy, holding the moment in place.