William S. Burroughs: The Cat Inside

August, 1984. James was downtown at Seventh and Massachusetts when he heard a cat mewling very loudly as if in pain. He went over to see what was wrong and the little black cat leapt into his arms. He brought it back to the house and when I started to open a tin of cat food the little beast jumped up onto the sideboard and rushed at the can. He ate himself out of shape, shit the litter box full, then shit on the rug. I have named him Fletch. He is all flash and glitter and charm, gluttony transmuted by innocence and beauty. Fletch, the little black foundling, is an exquisite, delicate animal with glistening black fur, a sleek black head like an otter's, slender and sinuous, with green eyes.
After two days in the house he jumped onto my bed and snuggled against me, purring and putting his paws up to my face. Fe is an unneutered male about six months old with splashes of white on his chest and stomach.
I kept Fletch in the house for five days lest he run away, and when we let him out he scuttled forty feet up a tree. The scene has a touch of Rousseau's Carnival Evening... a smoky moon, teenagers eating spun sugar, lights across the midway, a blast of circus music and Fletch is forty feet up and won't come down. Shall I call the fire department? Then Ruski goes up the tree and brings Fletch down.