I heard a rustling in the far reaches of the Mystery section and strolled over for a look. Our newest addition to the Library, kafka the cat, still more of a kitten, but on the borderline, was batting about a thickish paperback. We made eye contact and I think both of us were quite pleased to see each other, though, of course, I can only be sure of my feelings in the matter. After kafka's regarding of me, pleased or not, he took one more idle slash at the book, and embarked on a short tour of personal grooming. That last swipe was one of those deliciously refreshing cat moments where they seem to so keenly express that their moral universe is entirely autonomous from our own, and, on average, probably slightly better.
I petted kafka, one soft cat, and picked up the book. It was neatly
eviscerated, flayed curiously, as if it were a small rabbit, and kafka
was keen to peel back just the top half of it in a weird display of mangler's
virtuosity. I was impressed. "Good kitty." I said, petting kafka some
more. "Good kafka." The book was ruined, but I wasn't put out. We've got
just tons of books here, but only one cat.