Fletch, the brat cat, the boy cat who paws down tapestries. He just now jumped up on the table where I was reading. Then, irritated by cigarette smoke from the ashtray, he jumped against a chair where I had draped my coat, and knocked the chair over. It was quite deliberate. The lovable little demon cat. And so sad in his limitations, his dependence, his pathetic little histrionic gestures.
The thought of anyone mistreating him! He has been mistreated so many times over the centuries, my little black Fletch with his glistening coat and his amber eyes. The way he will suddenly rush into the room while I am lying down in laziness and disinclination to get on with the endless salt mines of The Western Lands. Jump on my chest and snuggle against me and put his paws up to my face. Other times his eyes are all black pupil, as sure an indication of "Watch out!" as a horse with its ears laid back. Then he will bite and scratch.
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