“I fount cat puke on my pillow this morning. I don't own a cat.”

“I hated cats. I was a dog lover," Des says with a shrug. "What's the point of a cat? They're not affectionate. But that's because it's not my cat. I mean, your wife wouldn't jump on my lap. That's because she's your wife, not mine. Until you have your own cat, you really don't understand.”

“I have a cat, the pet that ranks just above a throw pillow in terms of required responsibility.”

“You like the party?Is it in honour of anything?My cat's birthday.Where's your cat?I don't know, he ran away.”

“In the morning, when she wishes me to wake, she crouches on my chest, and pats my face with her paw. Or, if I am on my side, she crouches looking into my face. Soft, soft touches of her paw. I open my eyes, say I don't want to wake. I close my eyes. Cat gently pats my eyelids. Cat licks my nose. Cat starts purring, two inches from my face. Cat, then, as I lie pretending to be asleep, delicately bites my nose. I laugh and sit up. At which she bounds off my bed and streaks downstairs -- to have the back door opened if it is winter, to be fed, if it is summer.”

“I never had a cat again. I still like cats, though I decided atthe time that that poor little cat who climbed the tree and neverreturned would be my first and last cat. I couldn’t forget thatlittle cat and start loving another.”