You would too if you’d been raised on the mean streets of
By other estimates, it was that gig that messed him up for good. He took his job as investigative reporter seriously, and technicalities like “the law” less seriously. He looked corruption in the eye and, as everyone knows, cats always win staring contests. But after he looked a little too long and a little too hard at a crooked cop’s wife in the alley behind the Shortstop, he acquired a permanent bump on his nose and a barbed wire fence around his heart.
He continued to trot out the news in his signature, no-frills style: a short, sweet “Mrar” that told it like it was and not much else. He lived alone in a third-floor bachelor pad with a fleece blanket and a plain white water bowl for company. No one bothered him and he liked it that way.
He was thinking of the cop’s wife late one night when Cheryl came to his digs. She was a tall dame, towering over him by four and a half feet. Dressed in corduroy pants and a
She opened his cage door. He climbed onto her shoulders. She led him to a folding chair, where he curled up like a spare tire in a sun-drenched junkyard, closed his eyes and purred.