It was six or seyen years ago that I first witnessed a ginger cat break into my house.His name was Samson and,  while"cat''was one description you might have applied to him, another more accurate one was"ginger beach ball that just happened to have a cat's head on top".He belonged to Ruby,a lady in her 80s living across the road.Soon the two of us became friends:me allowing him to steal my cat's biscuits,him allowing me to stroke him while staring up at me in a relaxed way.If he had been able to speak,the maj ority of his sentences would have ended in the word"dude" .     When Ruby died in 2009,a friend who lived several miles away adopted Samson.A strict diet foilowed,which,left Samson looking less like a beach ball and more like a smaller cat wearing a baggy ginger sweater.While he had been around,I had complained a little about mv extra cat food bills and feared for my armchairs and sofa which were often violently scratched. but in the year or two after he'd gone I missed him a lot.     In the past two and a half years,I've been visited by a succession of ginger cats,all of whom have been lovable,and all of whom have proved costly in either an emotional or financial sense.     I'm moving out soon and facing up to the fact that I might never see them again.I've told the buver of my house about the essential information of it,especially the visiting cats.The chances are that one day if a cat,whether it is from one of the neighbours or just a stray one,turns up by his doorway,he can at least feed it. We can infer from the story that the author
missed the days spent with those cats regretted what she had done for the cats had many encounters with strange cats had to avoid conflicts with his neighbours