Our house, surrounded by pines on three sides, sits in the shadow of a mountain. During short winter days it is mid-afternoon before the sun moves into position to shine through the western facing windows and by then it is almost ready to set behind the low mountains across from us. As often as not, this time of year, the sun is obscured by clouds during that brief period.

So it didn't surprise me to see our cat, Sabrina, padding carefully past the brilliant rectangles of sunlight falling across the hardwood floors downstairs yesterday afternoon, pausing to examine where the light lay across the edge of the refrigerator, cocking her head to one side, seemingly mesmerized by the strange brightness.

Perhaps she had entirely forgotten the last time the light had fallen that way, it having been so long ago in terms of a cat's memory. It may have seemed to her a remarkable new phenomenon.

Upstairs on days like this the sun comes through the office window and illuminates the low shelf where we keep office supplies -- some reams of paper and a few rolls of clear tape. When the sun warms the tape Sabrina has a habit of stretching up to the shelf and smelling it.

Come to think of it, maybe that was why the light downstairs fascinated her. She'd been sniffing the glue again.