In the house, women cooked khachapuri; the kebab was roasted on the grill. A big and stupid black dog, having liсked anyone and everyone tiredly lied down at the door. The rooster in the yard was a guard of chickens, and under the table, like a transformer booth, rumbling cat sited, shrouded in warmth, peace and love and appeasement scattered in the sunlight. Everyone sat down at a table in the garden. Nukri was in chief, next to his beloved aunt. Toasts were fleeing from the heart, and wine from the horn. And it was good, and it was evening.