Daeth Dewi Sant i’r ardd i ymweld â Daf y gath, a oedd yn ymolchi ei draed.
– Pwy dych chi, ‘te? gofynnodd Daf.
– Dewi Sant dw i, meddai Dewi Sant, yn tynnu’n dwfn ar ei sigarèt. Roedd croen ei wyneb yn llwyd ac yn rhychiog, a’i ddillad yn hen iawn.
– So chi’n edrych fel Sant.
– Alla i ddim weud ‘mod i’n ymddwyn fel Sant chwaith.
Pesychodd, ac edrych yn fyw llygaid Daf.
– Dw i isie cwyno.
– Iawn, meddai Daf, heb ddiddordeb. – Bant â chi.
Cwynodd Dewi Sant. Am bopeth, am oriau. O’r diwedd, bu tawelwch.
– Chi ‘di gorffen? gofynnodd Daf.
– Odw.
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St David came to the garden to visit Dave the cat, who was washing his feet.
– Who are you, then? asked Dave.
– I’m St David, said St David, drawing deeply on his cigarette. The skin of his face was grey and wrinkled, and his clothes were very old.
– You don’t look like a saint.
– I can’t say that I behave like a saint, either.
He coughed, and looked Dave straight in the eye.
– I want to complain.
– OK, said Dave, without interest. – Off you go.
St David complained. About everything, for hours. In the end, there was silence.
– Have you finished? asked Dave.
– I have.
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