A very short story (with a happy ending)

 Let me tell you a little story...

Once upon a time there was a garden. Well, not was but is, because it is still there, it will always be there, vivid to the day. It's not a mysterious or enchanted garden, but just a normal garden in a suburban home in the north-east of England. It was a very well-looked after garden, its flower beds carefully pruned and symmetrically bordering all around three corners before a patio, cradeling a perfectly mowed lawn. It is so well looked after because it is really my dad's garden.

And there he sat in the middle of it on his throne, the quintessential English gardener, a man who needed no crown but wore a beard perfectly instead, observing his kingdom in mid-summer. This was his time; before dinner it was his aperitivo and also his digestive tipple afterwards. Anyone was free to join him, and so they did.

My mum sat by his right side in a matching, wooden garden chair. Her forearms laid comfortably on the chair arms, one hand holding on to a deep, red glass of Malbec. Both so slightly squinting as the sun still hung in the sky, both not needing to say anything and enjoying the most comfortable of silences.

However a few comments will always be thrown in as both of my brothers join them, each with a can of beer, easing in to the scene and the free chairs to the left of my mum in a semi-circle arc. Where their smirks come from is anyone's guess, but that's a Granville brother thing we have, ready to be unleashed at anyone and anything at any time. We never need a reason, but as soon as one does it, the other two could not resist. And then my mum grins too; hers was always a knock-on effect, some would say from the wine, but more likely because it seemed fitting to grin once others had started, or maybe she was just amused at what my brothers were smirking about, who both looked at each other and smirked a whole lot more. My parents turned their gaze to their right, over at them, forever trying to figure out what they had created. My dad's version was always somehow hidden under his pirate black beard, but his eyes have always smiled wider, despite the squint in the glare of sunlight. It was as if he was sat by a river, rod in hand, calmly and carefully pulling out the line, then slowly reeling it in.

In her feline strut and jet black coat, Leia the cat slowly wanders in and plonks herself down in the middle and infront of them all. After a satisfying day on the prowl, whether in hunt or exploration, she now just settles in to a semi-laying position on her side, though her head upright, licking her front paws as the summer rays penetrate and replenish her black gloss.

Soon after, to complete the late afernoon family gathering, Bat the cat jumps over the tall fence and back in to the garden. He takes his place next to Leia who stops licking for a moment to acknowledge him. Two black silhouettes - while Leia sleek and slender, Bat is all rough at the edges with his furry lion-like maine. She goes back to pampering her other paw as Bat sits back so still on his haunches and watches everyone intensely, because that's how he rolls. He takes it all in, assessing, before rolling on to his back to reveal his stomach and underside where the summer sun has tanned his long black fur in to patches of autumn leaf-brown. 

And that's it, that's the story. Or is it a picture or portrait? Either way, they were all happy ever after.