Agatha Snitt has a number of callers.

Angels come by and ask if they can have lemons from her tree. Odin stops by to try her cherry tarts. Ra doesn't get much time off, but every Friday he clears his schedule for their weekly game of chess, and the Devil swears she makes the best pie this side of the county.

Once, Fiddlesticks --her orange cat-- got hit by a car. Agatha waited by the road with a tray of tea and cookies. When Death arrived to collect the cat, Agatha worked her magic and before he knew it, the two of them were seated on her porch, chatting and playing cards.

He asked if she wanted him to bring the cat back to life, but she declined. Fiddlesticks was fifteen, and he had a myriad of problems; his eyes and kidneys were bad, and he could barely walk.

"No cat deserves to come back to that," she said.

Death thought about it. He politely excused himself from the table and vanished into thin air. A second later, he reappeared carrying the semi-transparent specter of Fiddlesticks. The cat ghost meowed and ran to Agatha without any sign of pain and purred, rubbing her leg.

"I can feel him!" she said, scooping up the ghost cat.

"He's a cat," Death said. "Living, they can go through walls. Dead, they can make themselves nearly solid. But there's no pain."

Agatha beamed. She thanked Death tearfully and when he finally did have to go, she sent him off with a bag of cookies.

These days, when he isn't too busy, and when Fiddlesticks has gotten whatever bird or mouse foolish enough to go into Agatha's yard, Death will stop by and the two will chat like old friends.