Paw and Prejudice
by Mary Soon Lee
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single human in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a cat.
However little known the feelings of views of such a human may be on their first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the feline population that the human is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of them.
In the case of the arrival of Ms. Angela Delany, I determined that, between the plenitude of her assets and the paucity of her aesthetic sense (she drove a Tesla with a lurid orange custom paint job), I should be that owner. Accordingly, I introduced myself as she lifted the last suitcase from the Tesla. I bunted her firmly on her bare brown calf, marking her as mine.
Ms. Delany squawked and dropped the suitcase.
Her squawk, I regret to say, was intemperate in volume and jarringly unmelodic. A lesser feline than myself would have retreated. I bunted her a second time.
Ms. Delany waved her arms and squawked yet more discordantly. Grabbing for her suitcase, she slipped inside and slammed the door.
From his post under a rhododendron bush, Grumbleclaw licked his lone ear disdainfully. "Leave that young woman to me. She don't like you none."
"If," I hissed at Grumbleclaw, "You so much as look at her, I'll remove your remaining ear."
Grumbleclaw departed.
I sat down on a sunwarmed paving stone and thought matters over as I groomed. Ms. Delany needed to be enlightened as to the benefits of my companionship. Grooming and planning complete, I went to procure supplies.
That evening, I inserted a mouse--wriggling and quite agitated--through an open dining room window as Ms. Delany took a bite of pizza.
With her loudest squawk yet and a surprising agility for a human, she leapt gracefully onto the table.
