There is a cat on our roof. It is white and it does not move.
"Is there a ladder in your house?" my father asks the neighbour.
"There isn't a ladder," he says. "But there are two long boards behind the garage."
Soon there are five people in the street: my father, the neighbour, two small boys, and an old woman with bread in her hand.
"There is no danger," the old woman says. "There are cats on that roof every spring. They come down at night."
Nobody listens to her. The boys hold the boards and my father climbs. There is a loud noise, and then there is nothing.
The cat is on the ground. It walks to the old woman and eats her bread.
"Are there any questions?" my father says from the roof.
There are none.