Being accused of witchcraft, the old woman stood before the orotund men, staring at three fat cats judging her; all furs, jewels and bulging waistlines.
“Your comportment has roused suspicion you are a witch,” the largest man boomed, his face beetroot. “Look, there it is again,” he shouted, pointing at the old woman.
“Ah, you mean my tic? That is not witchcraft, that is getting old.”
“You inveigled the poor farmer to part with his prize cow!”
“I offered to look at his cow but she died so I couldn’t return her,” she shrugged. She knew it sounded terrible but it was true and no one could ever call her a liar, although people had tried. It was the one thing she hated more than anything, more than being called a witch. No one ever called her a liar twice.
“”You are an inveterate liar! Nothing you say can be believed,” he huffed, puffing out his chest. The old woman sighed. It was all going so well until he uttered that word. She clasped the chunky, silver rondure on her finger and began to twist it.
“I always wanted a cat,” she said, “now I have three, come on kitties.”
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