Winston is thinking.
He is thinking about the smokey sunshine, about pictures, about the black perfection of his own paws, but mostly he is thinking about food.
There might be little bits of chicken when they prepare dinner; there might be morsels of cooked salmon if is Friday ( what ever that might be. ) There might be the right flavored packet food, not the one he has just gone off and will not eat. There might be dried snacks to run after in the sitting room in the unseasonably hot afternoon.
There might be peace on earth and every one fed and safe including the mice and the birds, but for now Winston is just stretching his paws in the sun and waiting.