Kitty was supposed to be an ordinary cat, but like all 'normal' cats he knew that no such thing existed. Of course, he possessed the standard cat equipment: tiny, abrasive pink tongue, just enough oil to scatter cat-allergic humans, the four legs, two eyes, and all that; the tail, excellent for balancing and waving tauntingly. He also possessed the virtuosity of balance that is so commonly confused with multiplicity of lives. Well, so far he sits gazing upon his lair, his vast high-ceilinged lair full of entrapments and sorrowfully bright, like mockingly joyful laughter because he knows, he feels it in the quiver of his skin and the voice, who whenever the unmanageable contraption the pale less furry beings call a door opens cries 'Run! Dash! Haste! Fury! Escape!' all at once, like one grand word comprised of all the best elements of the words fore mentioned. It is the door into Spring, the gateway to Catdome Come, with its light and branches and tasty tweeting birds, that he Will enter, someday.

Now he sits reciting the ancient poem: Oh bang ye keys, ye blasted piano / and all the guitar strings go flying / For if I hear another clarinet / surely shall the musician be / gently dying. It is a wicked poem, composed by Catfiend the Innate, whose wickedness was such that he meowed not only off-key, but sang every song, if singing it may be called, up one tritone above the original and in Locrian mode. This is why cats have reputations as bad singers.

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