Shocked Cat Quotes

I think there must be probably different types of suicides. I'm not one of the self-hating ones. The type of like "I'm shit and the world'd be better off without poor me" type that says that but also imagines what everybody'll say at their funeral. I've met types like that on wards. Poor-me-I-hate-me-punish-me-come-to-my-funeral. Then they show you a 20 X 25 glossy of their dead cat. It's all self-pity bullshit. It's bullshit. I didn't have any special grudges. I didn't fail an exam or get dumped by anybody. All these types. Hurt themselves. I didn't want to especially hurt myself. Or like punish. I don't hate myself. I just wanted out. I didn't want to play anymore is all. I wanted to just stop being conscious. I'm a whole different type. I wanted to stop feeling this way. If I could have just put myself in a really long coma I would have done that. Or given myself shock I would have done that. Instead.

Someone creeping into his yard in the dead of night? More likely there's a very shell-shocked cat wandering somewhere, covered in potato peelings.

Rincewind gave his fingers a long shocked stare, as one might regard a gun that has been hanging on the wall for decades and has suddenly gone off and perforated the cat.

He paused; a grim silence gripped the whole clearing, broken by a contemptious Rumble from Tigerstar. "Mew away, little kittypet. It won't change anything." Firestar ignored him. "Being deputy wasn't enough," he went on. "Tigerstar wanted to be leader of the clan. He set a trap for Bluestar by the Thunderpath, but my own apprentice strayed into it instead. That's how Cinderpelt came by her crippled leg." A shocked murmer swept through the clearing. Except for Bloodclan, they all knew of Cinderpelt, she was popular even with cats of other clans. Then Tigerstar conspired with Brokentail, the fomer leader of ShadowClan, who was ThunderClan's prisoner," Firestar told the listening cats. "He brought a pack of rogues into ThunderClan camp, and tried to murder Bluestar with his own claws. I stopped him, and when ThunderClan had beaten off the attack we drove him into excile. As a rogue, he slaughtered, Runningwind. Then before we knew what he was up too, he had made himself leader of ShadowClan.

I know there’s something troubling you. I’m not going to ask what it is, if you don’t want to tell me. But remember that I’m your mother. Nothing you say could ever shock me or make me love you less.

Let me get this straight… you didn’t have a cat? Did you get a cat just so that you wouldn’t have to tell me you were a virgin?” I pressed my lips together to keep them from trembling. I nodded. The look on his face was somewhere between shock and amusement. He was flabbergasted. That was the best word. His flabber had been thoroughly gasted.

I just got a rather nasty shock. In looking for something or other I came across the fact that one of my cats is about to be nine years old, and that another of them will shortly thereafter be eight; I have been labouring under the delusion they were about five and six. And yesterday I happened to notice in the mirror that while I have long since grown used to my beard being very grey indeed, I was not prepared to discover that my eyebrows are becoming noticeably shaggy. I feel the tomb is just around the corner. And there are all these books I haven't read yet, even if I am simultaneously reading at least twenty...

Beati bellicosi. Blessed are the warriors.” “Good organization,” said Magnus. “I knew the man who founded it, back in the 1800s. Woolsey Scott. Respectable old werewolf family.” Alec made an ugly sound in the back of his throat. “Did you sleep with him, too?” Magnus’s cat eyes widened. “Alexander!” “Well, I don’t know anything about your past, do I?” Alec demanded. “You won’t tell me anything; you just say it doesn’t matter.” Magnus’s face was expressionless, but there was a dark tinge of anger to his voice. “Does this mean every time I mention anyone I’ve ever met, you’re going to ask me if I had an affair with them?” Alec’s expression was stubborn, but Simon couldn’t help having a flash of sympathy; the hurt behind his blue eyes was clear. “Maybe.” “I met Napoleon once,” said Magnus. “We didn’t have an affair, though. He was shockingly prudish for a Frenchman.” “You met Napoleon?” Jordan, who appeared to be missing most of the conversation, looked impressed. “So it’s true what they said about warlocks, then?” Alec gave him a very unpleasant look. “What’s true?” “Alexander,” said Magnus coldly, and Clary met Simon’s eyes across the table. Hers were wide, green, and full of an expression that said Uh-oh. “You can’t be rude to everyone who talks to me.” Alec made a wide, sweeping gesture. “And why not? Cramping your style, am I? I mean, maybe you were hoping to flirt with werewolf boy here. He’s pretty attractive, if you like the messy-haired, broad-shouldered, chiseled-good looks type.” “Hey, now,” said Jordan mildly. Magnus put his head in his hands. “Or there are plenty of pretty girls here, since apparently your taste goes both ways. Is there anything you aren’t into?” “Mermaids,” said Magnus into his fingers. “They always smell like seaweed.” “It’s not funny,” Alec said savagely, and kicking back his chair, he got up from the table and stalked off into the crowd.

What a luxury a cat is, the moments of shocking and startling pleasure in a day, the feel of the beast, the soft sleekness under your palm, the warmth when you wake on a cold night, the grace and charm even in a quite ordinary workaday puss. Cat walks across your room, and in that lonely stalk you see leopard or even panther, or it turns its head to acknowledge you and the yellow blaze of those eyes tells you what an exotic visitor you have here, in this household friend, the cat who purrs as you stroke, or rub his chin, or scratch his head.

This murdered girl troubles me. After the first shock, nobody at school says much about her. Even Cordelia does not want to talk about her. It’s as if this girl has done something shameful, herself, by being murdered.

Mercy's eyes held equal parts shock, and delight. "Riley." He felt his lips stretch even wider. "I think we need to celebrate with some brand-new etchings." His cat's laugh was surprised and warm and the sound of home. "It's your etchings that got us into this position.

With the suddneness of a cat leaping upon its prey, he leaned forward and caught up her wrist. "Tread lightly, Miranda Fair." His thumb moved lightly over her fluttering pulse, as she stared with her mouth assuredly hanging open in shock, her heart beating furiously within her breast."You know, it's never wise to tempt the devil." His gaze lowered to her hand, still locked in his grip, her fingers glistening with pear juice. "Had I not this mask, I should be of a mind to suck that juice right off of your fingers.

Hamlet's Cat's Soliloquy "To go outside, and there perchance to stay Or to remain within: that is the question: Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer The cuffs and buffets of inclement weather That Nature rains on those who roam abroad, Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet, And so by dozing melt the solid hours That clog the clock's bright gears with sullen time And stall the dinner bell. To sit, to stare Outdoors, and by a stare to seem to state A wish to venture forth without delay, Then when the portal's opened up, to stand As if transfixed by doubt. To prowl; to sleep; To choose not knowing when we may once more Our readmittance gain: aye, there's the hairball; For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob, Or work a lock or slip a window-catch, And going out and coming in were made As simple as the breaking of a bowl, What cat would bear the houselhold's petty plagues, The cook's well-practiced kicks, the butler's broom, The infant's careless pokes, the tickled ears, The trampled tail, and all the daily shocks That fur is heir to, when, of his own will, He might his exodus or entrance make With a mere mitten? Who would spaniels fear, Or strays trespassing from a neighbor's yard, But that the dread of our unheeded cries And scraches at a barricaded door No claw can open up, dispels our nerve And makes us rather bear our humans' faults Than run away to unguessed miseries? Thus caution doth make house cats of us all; And thus the bristling hair of resolution Is softened up with the pale brush of thought, And since our choices hinge on weighty things, We pause upon the threshold of decision.

Bluestar blinked. "There are cats who would argue that there should never have been a fifth Clan in the forest at all. Why are there four oaks at Fourtrees, if not to stand for the four Clans?" Firestar gazed up at the massive oak trees, then back at Bluestar. Fury pure as a lightning flash rushed through his body. "Are you mouse-brained?" he snarled. "Are you telling me that SkyClan had to leave because there weren't enough trees?" A look of shock and dismay filled Bluestar's eyes.

Because I am a mother, I am capable of being shocked; as I never was when I was not one.

It should not be possible to get from the banks of the Pepani River to Wyoming in less than two days, because mentally and emotionally it is impossible. The shock is too much, the contrast too raw. We should sail or swim or walk from Africa, letting bits of her drop out of us, and gradually, in this way, assimilate the excesses and liberties of the States in tiny, incremental sips.... p 72

Now, as a modern-day Viking cat, you’d think I’d bat the jowls of Crime with rapid-fire paws. But when I trotted along the riverpath that shockingly snowy night of June 1 and stumbled upon the beaten and bloodied corpse, I wasn’t in my most Vikingest state.

In one hallway, the floor gleaming parquet and the ceiling festooned with golden cherubs, there was a boy in a grumpy cat mask and biker boots, not involved in any sexual activity, legs crossed and leaning against the wall. As a bevy of faeries passed the boy, giggling and groping, the boy scooted away. Alec remembered being younger, and how overwhelming large groups of people had seemed. He came over and leaned against the wall beside the boy. He saw the boy texting, PARTIES WERE INVENTED TO ANNOY ME. THEY FEATURE MY LEAST FAVORITE THING: PEOPLE, ALL INTENT ON MY LEAST FAVORITE ACTIVITY: SOCIAL INTERACTION. “I don’t really like parties either,” Alec said sympathetically. “No hablo italiano,” the boy mumbled without looking up. “Er,” said Alec. “This conversation is happening in English.” “No hablo ingles,” he said without missing a beat. “Oh, come on. Really?” “Worth a shot,” said the boy. Alec considered going away. The boy wrote another text to a contact he had saved as RF. Alec could not help but notice that the conversation was entirely one-sided, the boy sending text after text with no response. The last text read VENICE SMELLS LIKE A TOILET. AS A NEW YORKER, I DO NOT SAY THIS LIGHTLY. The weird coincidence emboldened Alec to try again. “I get shy when there are strangers too,” Alec told the kid. “I’m not shy,” the boy sneered. “I just hate everyone around me and everything that is happening.” “Well.” Alec shrugged. “Those feel like similar things sometimes.” The boy lifted his curly head, pushing the grumpy cat mask off his face, and froze. Alec froze too, at the twin shock of fangs and familiarity. This was a vampire, and Alec knew him. “Raphael?” he asked. “Raphael Santiago?” He wondered what the second-in-command of the New York clan was doing here. Downworlders might be flooding in from all over the world, but Raphael had never struck Alec as a party animal. Of course, he was not exactly coming off as a party animal now. “Oh no, it’s you,” said Raphael. “The twelve-year-old idiot.” Alec was not keen on vampires. They were, after all, people who had died. Alec had seen too much death to want reminders of it. He understood that they were immortal, but there was no need to show off about it. “We just fought a war together. I was with you in the graveyard when Simon came back as a vampire. You’ve seen me multiple times since I was twelve.” “The thought of you at twelve haunts me,” Raphael said darkly. “Okay,” Alec said, humoring him. “So have you seen a guy called Mori Shu anywhere around here?” “I am trying not to make eye contact with anyone here,” said Raphael. “And I’m not a snitch for Shadowhunters. Or a fan of talking to people, of any kind, in any place.” Alec rolled his eyes.

No.” Page laid a hand on his shoulder. “What you’re not going to do is talk about shell shock or combat fatigue or brain fuckery as if it’s a special treat that you haven’t earned.

He couldn't bring himself to kill me. That shocked me more than his threats. I didn't know what to say to him.

[At the scene of a murder] The cats' bloodthirst was normal; it was the way God had made them. They were hunters, they killed for food and to train their young--well maybe sometimes for sport. But this violent act by some unknown human had nothing to do with hunting--for a human to brutally maim one of the own kind out of rage or sadism or greed was, to Joe and Dulcie (the cats), a shocking degradation of the human condition. To imagine that vicious abandon in a human deeply distressed Dulcie; she did not like thinking about humans that way.

That was before Clay moved those big, warm hands up over her body, spreading one on her lower back while the other curved around her nape. The hold was so proprietary, so aggressive, it should’ve scared her into running in the other direction. Instead it sparked a darkly sexual heat in her, stoking her need past blazing. She melted into him, pressing her aching breasts against the solid wall of his chest. He purred into her mouth. Nipples shocked into sudden pleasure by the vibration, she pulled back. “You purr?” His smile was pure cat. “Only for you.” Any resistance she might’ve harbored to this dangerous, inevitable escalation in their relationship dissolved into a big fat pool at her feet. He was being charming. Clay did not do charm, not for anyone. Except, it seemed, her. She pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Stop being so sexy.” His smile widened and, sliding his hand from her nape to her hair, he tugged back her head so he could kiss her again. The embers in her stomach burst into flame as she realized she was rubbing her nipples against him. He didn’t seem to mind—he was doing that purring thing again.

That’s because stacked on and around her desk, in neat skyscraper-high columns, are books. About three dozen of them. For a moment, I freeze, my mouth open and my eyes wide with shock. Then, inanely, I wonder how the hell she got them all up here. Kate weighs a buck-ten at best. There’s got to be several hundred pounds of pages in this room. It’s then that her shiny dark head emerges over the horizon. And, once again, she smiles. Like a cat with a mouthful of bird.

Gentlemen, all the so-called recreational drugs that have come into wide use in the last few decades may be chemical shock devices. I think people are bleaching out their old imprints, and accidentally making new ones, when they think they're just getting high and having fun.

Yes. Five minutes later and it wouldn’t have mattered so much. It was a quite shocking cock-up.” “Huh?” said Arthur. “The mice were furious.” “The mice were furious?” “Oh yes,” said the old man mildly. “Yes, well, so I expect were the dogs and cats and duck-billed platypuses, but . . .” “Ah, but they hadn’t paid for it, you see, had they?

One day, I wish to find a man like in my books. He has to be just like in one of my books. And he has to love me, love me more than anything in the world. Most important of all, he has to think I’m beautiful.” “Lily, I need to tell you something.” Fazire was going to tell her about Becky’s wish and his mistake and let her look forward to something, let her look forward to the incomparable beauty she was going to be. Most of all, he had to stop her wish now. He didn’t want her wasting it on some fool idea. He wanted it to be special, perfect, to make her world better like she had made Becky and Will’s and, indeed, his. But again she didn’t hear him. Her eyes were bright and they were steady on his. “He has to be tall, very tall and dark and broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped.” Fazire stared. He didn’t even know what “narrow-hipped” meant. “And he has to be handsome, unbelievably handsome, impossibly handsome with a strong, square jaw and powerful cheekbones and tanned skin and beautiful eyes with lush, thick lashes. He has to be clever and very wealthy but hardworking. He has to be virile, fierce, ruthless and rugged.” Now she was getting over his head. He didn’t think there was such a thing as impossibly handsome. How cheekbones could be powerful, Fazire didn’t know. He was even thinking he might have to look up “virile” in the dictionary Sarah had given him. “And he has to be hard and cold and maybe a little bit forbidding, a little bit bad with a broken heart I have to mend or one encased in ice I have to melt or better yet… both!” Fazire thought this was getting a bit ridiculous. It was the most complicated wish he’d ever heard. But she wasn’t yet finished. “We have to go through some trials and tribulations. Something to test our love, make it strong and worthy. And… and… he has to be daring and very masculine. Powerful. People must respect him, maybe even fear him. Graceful too and lithe, like a… like a cat! Or a lion. Or something like that.” She was losing steam and Fazire had to admit he was grateful for it. “And he has to be a good lover.” Lily shocked Fazire by saying. “The best, so good, he could almost make love to me just by using his eyes.” Fazire felt himself blush. Perhaps he should have a look at these books she was reading and show them to Becky. Lily was a very sharp girl, sharp as a tack (another one of Sarah’s sayings, although Fazire couldn’t imagine a tack ever being as clever as Lily) but she was too young to be reading about any man making love to her with his eyes. Fazire had never made love, never would, genies just didn’t. But he was pretty certain fourteen year old girls shouldn’t be thinking about it. Though, he was wrong about that, or at least Becky would tell him that later. Then Fazire realised she’d stopped talking. “Is that it?” he asked. She thought for a bit, clearly not wanting to leave anything out. Then she nodded.

Of course I want her. I’m just shocked. I mean, you don’t really like animals.” “But you do. And you wanted a cat. Now you’ve got one.

Jayden? Wake up. We have a problem." "Only one?" "We have many problems. This is a new one." Jayden rubbed his eyes and sat up. "What is it?" "You know your friend Reginald Lootmore?" Dana pointed at a black cat glaring down at them from the rafters. "Isn't that his cat, Jump Scare?" Jayden squinted in the dim light. "I do believe it is. I'm shocked he hasn't attacked us yet.

He thought of all the living species that train their young in the art of survival, the cats who teach their kittens to hunt, the birds who spend such strident effort on teaching their fledglings to fly – yet man, whose tool of survival is the mind, does not merely fail to teach a child to think, but devotes the child’s education to the purpose of destroying his brain, of convincing him that thought is futile and evil, before he has started to think. From the first catch-phrases flung at a child to the last, it is like a series of shocks to freeze his motor, to undercut the power of his consciousness. “Don’t ask so many questions, children should be seen and not heard!” – “Who are you to think? It’s so, because I say so!” – “Don’t argue, obey!” – “Don’t try to understand, believe!” – “Don’t struggle, compromise!” – “Your heart is more important than your mind!” – “Who are you to know? Your parents know best!” – “Who are you to know? The bureaucrats know best!” – “Who are you to object? All values are relative!” – “Who are you to want to escape a thug’s bullet? That’s only a personal prejudice!” Men would shudder, he thought, if they saw a mother bird plucking the feathers from the wings of her young, then pushing him out of the nest to struggle for survival – yet that was what they did to their children.

Umm, Ren? We have something important we need to discuss. Meet me on the veranda at sundown, okay?” He froze with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “A secret rendezvous? On the veranda? At sundown?” He arched an eyebrow at me. “Why, Kelsey, are you trying to seduce me?” “Hardly,” I dryly muttered. He laughed. “Well, I’m all yours. But be gentle with me tonight, fair maiden. I’m new at this whole being human business.” Exasperated, I threw out, “I am not your fair maiden.” He ignored my comment and went back to devouring his lunch. He also took the other half of my discarded peanut butter sandwich and ate that too, commenting, “Hey! This stuff’s pretty good.” Finished, I walked over to the kitchen island and began clearing away Ren’s mess. When he was done eating, he stood to help me. We worked well together. It was almost like we knew what the other person was going to do before he or she did it. The kitchen was spotless in no time. Ren took off his apron and threw it into the laundry basket. Then, he came up behind me while I was putting away some glasses and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me up against him. He smelled my hair, kissed my neck, and murmured softly in my ear, “Mmm, definitely peaches and cream, but with a hint of spice. I’ll go be a tiger for a while and take a nap, and then I can save all my hours for you this evening.” I grimaced He was probably expecting a make-out session, and I was planning to break up with him. He wanted to spend time with a girlfriend, and my intention was to explain to him how we weren’t meant to be together. Not that we were ever officially together. Still, it felt like a break-up. Why does this have to be so hard? Ren rocked me and whispered, “’How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like soft music to attending ears.’” I turned around in his arms, shocked. “How did you remember that? That’s Romeo and Juliet!” He shrugged. “I paid attention when you were reading it to me. I liked it.” He gently kissed my cheek. “See you tonight, iadala,” and left me standing there. The rest of the afternoon, I couldn’t focus on anything. Nothing held my attention for more than a few minutes. I rehearsed some sentences in front of the mirror, but they all sounded pretty lame to me: “It’s not you, it’s me,” “There are plenty of other fish in the sea,” “I need to find myself,” “Our differences are too big,” “I’m not the one,” “There’s someone else.” Heck, I even tried “I’m allergic to cats.

But Uggi was shocked and told her that lady dragons, who are in any case rare, stay at home and guard the treasure. Now this is an ancient dragon fallacy, since in fact the lady dragons are very much fiercer than any other, especially when they have a nest full of eggs. And, although this is always denied, lady dragons have been known to kill and cat other dragons and, what is worse, to take their treasures.

There are women gathering around me, the rustle of their feathers, a cooing. I am soothed and consoled, patted, cherished as if in shock. Maybe they mean it, maybe they like me after all. It’s so hard for me to tell, with women.

When you got Ama I thought maybe you were going to become one of those bachelor-pet-owner types. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I think Chloe will be good for you!” Shiloh winked and made a heart shape with her fingers. I lay in Noctus’s arms, deeply traumatized by the conversation. She thought Noctus was going to become an old cat lady? Noctus. The elf king?! Noctus took advantage of my shock to ease me onto my back so he cradled me like a baby.

A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place your sight can knock on, echoing; but here within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze will be absorbed and utterly disappear: just as a raving madman, when nothing else can ease him, charges into his dark night howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels the rage being taken in and pacified. She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen into her, so that, like an audience, she can look them over, menacing and sullen, and curl to sleep with them. But all at once as if awakened, she turns her face to yours; and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny, inside the golden amber of her eyeballs suspended, like a prehistoric fly. - Black Cat

Fascism’s success almost always depends on the cooperation of the “losers” during a time of economic and technological change. The lower-middle classes—the people who have just enough to fear losing it—are the electoral shock troops of fascism (Richard Hofstadter identified this “status anxiety” as the source of Progressivism’s quasi-fascist nature). Populist appeals to resentment against “fat cats,” “international bankers,” “economic royalists,” and so on are the stock-in-trade of fascist demagogues.

It is remarkable that a fist-gnawingly dire England performance still has the power to shock, when in some ways this one had all the exquisite unpredictability of Norman Wisdom approaching a banana skin in the immediate vicinity of a swimming pool... The England shirt is the precise opposite of a superhero costume, turning men with extraordinary abilities into mild-mannered guys next door. Were Stephen Fry to pull it on, he would struggle to string a sentence together. Were Lucian Freud to slip it over his head he would turn his easel round to reveal a childlike scribble of a cat.

I don’t even want to think about all the animals--livestock, pets, strays--left out to battle the elements. The very idea makes my heart hurt. “You okay?” Ryder asks me. “Yeah, why?” “I dunno.” He shrugs. “You just looked…sad or something.” I’m shocked at how well he can read me. “I was just thinking about anyone--anything--stuck out there in this. You know, dogs, cats, horses. Cows,” I add, sighing heavily. “We’ve got cows!” Rider quips, quoting that old movie about tornadoes--you know, the one with Bill Paxton. I admit, it makes me smile. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” Ryder says.

The revelation that there was nothing "special" about humanity didn't shock her. Not specifically. She'd always been cynical about that sort of thing. The idea that reality was all too big to even quantify in any meaningful way didn't disturb her much either. Except, deep down, she'd assumed there was some inherent logic at work. Like ricocheting molecules congealing into planets and stars, dogs and cats. At least the made sense, even if it wasn't very comforting. At least it put things in neat little boxes with neat little labels that she didn't always understand but could rely on in terms of familiarity.

No, I assure you that I’m farther gone than most. And I wasn’t even a soldier. All I did was, as you said, stitch people up. What right do I have to—” “No.” Page laid a hand on his shoulder. “What you’re not going to do is talk about shell shock or combat fatigue or brain fuckery as if it’s a special treat that you haven’t earned.

Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she’s like a mad cat.” “For shame! for shame!” cried the lady’s-maid. “What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress’s son! Your young master.” “Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?” “No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep. There, sit down, and think over your wickedness.

The queen let go of his ear and then bent her head down and whispered something to him. Reichis’s ears went flat against his head even as his fur suddenly changed to a pale yellow. He looked like he’d been hit by a thunderbolt. ‘Kellen!’ he chittered frantically. ‘What’s wrong?’ His eyes found mine. I’d never seen him look so shocked. ‘This bitch speaks squirrel cat!

In a set of classic experiments, the psychologist Z. Y. Kuo6 showed that almost all kittens who witness their mother killing and eating a rodent eventually do so themselves. However, when kittens are raised in the same cage with a rat, never seeing any other rat, and never seeing a cat kill a rat, then they almost never kill rats themselves. When kittens have a rat for a littermate and also witness their mothers killing rats outside the cage, about half of them learn to kill—but they tend to kill only the kinds of rat they had seen their mothers kill, and not the kinds that they grew up with. Finally, when kittens are given an electric shock each time they see a rat, they soon learn not to kill rats—indeed, to run in terror from them.

Here’s my credit card.” I extended the plastic to Shakespeare, waving it between my fingers like a bribe. “You can use it for whatever you want. Just give us ten minutes alone.” Shakespeare opened his mouth, not touching the credit card, glancing between me and Emilia, who looked just as shocked as he did, if not more. But it was too late to take it back, and I didn’t want to anyway. Come the fuck on, Goatee. Turn around and walk away. “Anything,” I stressed, my face still blank. “Go get yourself a new chair. Or a table. Or ink, whatever the fuck it is you need. My treat. Go order food for the whole building. Buy the stray cat down the road a bed to piss on. I’ll give you ten minutes with my credit card if you give me ten minutes in this room with her. Alone.

Well, forgive the fuck out of me for being shocked senseless when I realized he wasn’t dead. Why didn’t you tell me he was the beast, Ryodan? Why did we have to kill him? I know it’s not because he can’t control himself when he’s the beast. He controlled himself last night when he rescued me from the Book. He can change at will, can’t he? What happened in the Silvers? Does the place have some kind of effect on you, make you uncontrollable?” I almost slapped myself in the forehead. Barrons had told me that the reason he tattooed himself with black and red protection runes was because using dark magic called a price due, unless you took measures to protect yourself against the backlash. Did using IYD require the blackest kind of magic to make it work? Would it grant his demand to magically transport him to me no matter where I was but devolve him into the darkest, most savage version of himself as the price? “It was because of how he got there, wasn’t it?” I said. “The spell you two worked sent him to me like was it was supposed to, but the cost was that it turned him into the lowest common denominator of himself. An insane killing machine. Which he figured was all right, because if I was dying, I’d probably need a killing machine around. A champion to show up and decimate all my enemies. That was it, wasn’t it?” Ryodan had gone completely still. Not a muscle twitched. I wasn’t sure he was breathing. “He knew what would happen if I pressed IYD, and he made plans with you to handle it.” That was Barrons, always thinking, always managing risks where I was concerned. “He tattooed me so he would sense his mark on me and not kill me. And you were supposed to track him—that’s why you both wear those cuffs, so you can find each other—and kill him so he’d come back as the man form of himself, and I’d never be any wiser. I’d get rescues and have no clue it was Barrons who’d done it or that he sometimes turns into a beast. But you screwed up. And that’s what he was mad at you about this morning on the phone. It was your failure to kill him that let the cat out of the bag.” A tiny muscle twitched in his jaw. He was pissed. I was definitely right. “He can always circumvent the price of black magic,” I marveled. “When you kill him, he comes back exactly the same as before, doesn’t he? He could tattoo his whole body with protection runes and, when he ran out of skin, kill himself so he could come back with a clean slate, to start all over.” That was why his tattoos weren’t always the same. “Talk about your ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card! And if you hadn’t botched the plan, I would never have known. It’s your fault I know, Ryodan. I think that means it’s not me you should kill, it’s yourself. Oh, gee, wait,” I said sarcastically, “that wouldn’t work, would it?

Sarah sits up and reaches over, plucking a string on my guitar. It’s propped against the nightstand on her side of the bed. “So . . . do you actually know how to play this thing?” “I do.” She lies down on her side, arm bent, resting her head in her hand, regarding me curiously. “You mean like, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,’ the ‘ABC’s,’ and such?” I roll my eyes. “You do realize that’s the same song, don’t you?” Her nose scrunches as she thinks about it, and her lips move as she silently sings the tunes in her head. It’s fucking adorable. Then she covers her face and laughs out loud. “Oh my God, I’m an imbecile!” “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, but if you say so.” She narrows her eyes. “Bully.” Then she sticks out her tongue. Big mistake. Because it’s soft and pink and very wet . . . and it makes me want to suck on it. And then that makes me think of other pink, soft, and wet places on her sweet-smelling body . . . and then I’m hard. Painfully, achingly hard. Thank God for thick bedcovers. If this innocent, blushing bird realized there was a hot, hard, raging boner in her bed, mere inches away from her, she would either pass out from all the blood rushing to her cheeks or hit the ceiling in shock—clinging to it by her fingernails like a petrified cat over water. “Well, you learn something new every day.” She chuckles. “But you really know how to play the guitar?” “You sound doubtful.” She shrugs. “A lot has been written about you, but I’ve never once heard that you play an instrument.” I lean in close and whisper, “It’s a secret. I’m good at a lot of things that no one knows about.” Her eyes roll again. “Let me guess—you’re fantastic in bed . . . but everybody knows that.” Then she makes like she’s playing the drums and does the sound effects for the punch-line rim shot. “Ba dumb ba, chhhh.” And I laugh hard—almost as hard as my cock is. “Shy, clever, a naughty sense of humor, and a total nutter. That’s a damn strange combo, Titebottum.” “Wait till you get to know me—I’m definitely one of a kind.” The funny thing is, I’m starting to think that’s absolutely true. I rub my hands together, then gesture to the guitar. “Anyway, pass it here. And name a musician. Any musician.” “Umm . . . Ed Sheeran.” I shake my head. “All the girls love Ed Sheeran.” “He’s a great singer. And he has the whole ginger thing going for him,” she teases. “If you were born a prince with red hair? Women everywhere would adore you.” “Women everywhere already adore me.” “If you were a ginger prince, there’d be more.” “All right, hush now smartarse-bottum. And listen.” Then I play “Thinking Out Loud.” About halfway through, I glance over at Sarah. She has the most beautiful smile, and I think something to myself that I’ve never thought in all my twenty-five years: this is how it feels to be Ed Sheeran.

She had a reputation throughout the Clans for a sharp tongue and a short temper, as well as fearlessness in battle and deep pride in ShadowClan. She played a vital role in helping establish the new territory beside the lake when she took on the troublesome kittypets who lived in a Twoleg den amid the pine trees. Even as she got older and more frail, Russetfur remained the ShadowClan deputy, keeping younger warriors in line with her brisk words and high expectations. She was killed by Lionblaze in a battle over the clearing between ShadowClan and ThunderClan; her death was a shock to everyone, and there were suggestions that such an old cat should not have been allowed to fight. But it was the death Russetfur would have chosen for herself, bravely and in the midst of battle on behalf of her beloved ShadowClan.

Tiffany’s basket was on the table. It had a present in it, of course. Everyone knew you took a small present along when you went visiting, but the person you were visiting was supposed to be surprised when you gave it to her, and say things like “Oooh, you shouldn’t have.” “I brought you something,” said Tiffany, swinging the big black kettle onto the fire. “You’ve got no call to be bringing me presents, I’m sure,” said Granny sternly. “Yes, well,” said Tiffany, and left it at that. She heard Granny lift the lid of the basket. There was a kitten in it. “Her mother is Pinky, the Widow Cable’s cat,” said Tiffany, to fill the silence. “You shouldn’t have,” growled the voice of Granny Weatherwax. “It was no trouble.” Tiffany smiled at the fire. “I can’t be havin’ with cats.” “She’ll keep the mice down,” said Tiffany, still not turning around. “Don’t have mice.” Nothing for them to eat, thought Tiffany. Aloud, she said, “Mrs. Earwig’s got six big black cats.” In the basket, the white kitten would be staring up at Granny Weatherwax with the sad, shocked expression of all kittens. You test me, I test you, Tiffany thought. “I don’t know what I shall do with it, I’m sure. It’ll have to sleep in the goat shed,” said Granny Weatherwax. Most witches had goats. [...] When Tiffany left, later on, Granny Weatherwax said good-bye at the door and very carefully shut the kitten outside. Tiffany went across the clearing to where she’d tied up Miss Treason’s broomstick. But she didn’t get on, not yet. She stepped back up against a holly bush, and went quiet until she wasn’t there anymore, until everything about her said: I’m not here. Everyone could see pictures in the fire and in clouds. You just turned that the other way around. You turned off that bit of yourself that said you were there. You dissolved. Anyone looking at you would find you very hard to see. Your face became a bit of leaf and shadow, your body a piece of tree and bush. The other person’s mind would fill in the gaps. Looking like just another piece of holly bush, she watched the door. The wind had got up, warm but worrisome, shaking the yellow and red leaves off the sycamore trees and whirring them around the clearing. The kitten tried to bat a few of them out of the air and then sat there, making sad little mewling noises. Any minute now, Granny Weatherwax would think Tiffany had gone and would open the door and— “Forgot something?” said Granny by her ear. She was the bush. “Er...it’s very sweet. I just thought you might, you know, grow to like it,” said Tiffany, but she was thinking: Well, she could have got here if she ran, but why didn’t I see her? Can you run and hide at the same time? “Never you mind about me, my girl,” said the witch. “You run along back to Miss Treason and give her my best wishes, right now. But”—and her voice softened a little—“that was good hiding you did just then. There’s many as would not have seen you. Why, I hardly heard your hair growin’!” When Tiffany’s stick had left the clearing, and Granny Weatherwax had satisfied herself in other little ways that she had really gone, she went back inside, carefully ignoring the kitten again. After a few minutes, the door creaked open a little. It may have been just a draft. The kitten trotted inside...

What do you think?” She turned to Reth, who avoided her eyes, staring determinedly into the sparkling pink distance. “You are the queen. Why are you asking me?” “Because I value your opinion.” “Excuse me,” I said, since obviously she wasn’t used to Reth’s sneaky circular way of talking. “You do realize he didn’t answer your question, right?” Reth glared at me, then looked back at the Light Queen. “I could not say what I think.” The Light Queen narrowed her eyes. “Could not say, or will not say?” “Slim difference between the two.” “My golden son, the mortal realms have changed you. Would you deceive even me?” I snorted. “You don’t know Reth very well if you think he’s ever straightforward about anything.” His full lips twitched toward a smile. “Will not say.” “I command you to.” The smile bloomed, full and sly. “Ah, but not even you know my name now.” Her huge cat-shaped eyes went round with shock. “Have you no loyalty?” “I do. I am loyal to myself and I am loyal to what Evelyn should become. Everything I do is to those ends, to securing the eternity we should have together.

A bout of nerves crept up my spine and I tilted my head at him, hoping I was imagining the heat spreading over my cheeks to spare myself the embarrassment of blushing merely because he was piercing me with those chocolate eyes that I had never noticed were so amazing. “What are you staring at?” “Can I take you to prom?” He asked me. Just like that, no hesitation or insecurity to be found in his tone or facial expression. His confidence caught me completely off guard and I gaped at him in a stunned silence for almost twenty full seconds. His expression never faltered, though. He just watched my mouth work to make some sort of intelligible sound, waiting for my answer as he oozes at least the illusion of complete calm. “Huh?” I blurted in an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak. I sounded like a chipmunk and his smirk made me turn a deep shade of red. “Um… Uh… Prom?” I managed, eloquent as ever. He laughed at me fondly, nodding his head. “Yeah, prom.” Shock was not a deep enough word to describe what I was feeling over this proposal. This was Jim, the kid who swore up and down he would rather gouge out his eyes with a grapefruit spoon than put on dress clothes and he was offering to take me to a place where flannel shirts and ratty jeans were unacceptable and dance me around a room in uncomfortable shoes all night long? This couldn’t be real life. But it was real life. I was sitting in the car with him with my mouth hanging open like a fish waiting for him to laugh and tell me he was kidding, that there was no way he was going to put on a tie for my benefit, and he was sitting right there, a slightly nervous look crossing his features over my dumbstruck expression. Breathe, Lizzie, I scolded myself. Answer him! Say yes! You could have knocked me over with a feather and I was very relieved to be sitting down in a car so I could prevent anything humiliating from happening. Having already proved I could not trust my voice to answer him I jerkily nodded my head as my mouth grew into a Cheshire cat sized smile. I turned my face away and hid behind my hair as if I could hide my excitement from the world. Jim was visibly euphoric and that only made me want to squeal even more. He was excited to take me out. How cool was that?

As he strode across the room after Lady Tarley, Maria found herself smiling. She ought to be furious with him, knowing that the gossip might make it into the London papers and get back to Nathan. So whywasn’t she? Because he’d done it to save her from embarrassment. And because Oliver rarely said anything on impulse. Considering how he’d fought the idea of marriage, it was astonishing he would let something like that slip. It made her hope… No, she’d be mad to hope for anything more from him-especially given his clear alarm over how he’d misspoken. The woman Lady Tarley had been talking to hurried to Mrs. Plumtree, who broke into a cat-in-the-cream smile after the woman said a few words to her. Mrs. Plumtree glanced over at Maria, and to Maria’s shock, she winked. Winked! Maria didn’t know what had happened in the past few hours, but somehow Mrs. Plumtree had gone from disapproving of her as a wife for Oliver to approving of her wholeheartedly. Oh dear. She had a sinking feeling that this evening was about to head in a direction Oliver hadn’t anticipated. And the worst part was that a tiny, ridiculous corner of her heart was glad.

That first second was long and confusing. The second, when it finally came, was sudden. The figure froze . . . swiveled . . . rose . . . and I knew. Miss Winter’s eyes. Brilliant, supernatural green. But not Miss Winter’s face. A patchwork of scarred and mottled flesh, crisscrossed by crevices deeper than age could make. Two uneven dumplings of cheeks. Lopsided lips, one half a perfect bow that told of former beauty, the other a twisted graft of white flesh. Emmeline! Miss Winter’s twin! Alive, and living in this house! My mind was in turmoil; blood was pounding in my ears; shock paralyzed me. She stared at me unblinking, and I realized she was less startled than I was. But still, she seemed to be under the same spell as me. We were both cast into immobility. She was the first to recover. In an urgent gesture she raised a dark, soil-covered hand toward me and, in a hoarse voice, rasped a string of senseless sounds. Bewilderment slowed my responses; I could not even stammer her name before she turned and hurried away, leaning forward, shoulders hunched. From out of the shadows emerged the cat. He stretched calmly and, ignoring me, took himself off after her. They disappeared under the arch and I was alone. Me and a patch of churned-up soil. Foxes indeed.

The natural world gives us many examples of the great effectiveness of this way. The Chinese philosophy of which judo itself is an expression—Taoism—drew attention to the power of water to overcome all obstacles by its gentleness and pliability. It showed how the supple willow survives the tough pine in a snowstorm, for whereas the unyielding branches of the pine accumulate snow until they crack, the springy boughs of the willow bend under its weight, drop the snow, and jump back again. If, when swimming, you are caught in a strong current, it is fatal to resist. You must swim with it and gradually edge to the side. One who falls from a height with stiff limbs will break them, but if he relaxes like a cat he will fall safely. A building without 'give' in its structure will easily collapse in storm or earthquake, and a car without the cushioning of tires and springs will soon come apart on the road. The mind has just the same powers, for it has give and can absorb shocks like water or a cushion. But this giving way to an opposing force is not at all the same thing as running away. A body of water does not run away when you push it; it simply gives at the point of the push and encloses your hand. A shock absorber does not fall down like a bowling-pin when struck; it gives, and yet stays in the same place. To run away is the only defense of something rigid against an overwhelming force. Therefore the good shock absorber has not only 'give,' but also stability or 'weight.

Didn’t you ever notice that whatever you wanted or whatever you set out to do, Cora wanted to do it too?” Noah asked. “She wasn’t like that.” “She was, Mer. And it’s okay to admit it. One of the hardest things about Cora dying is that everyone wants to erase her—the real Cora. They talk about her as though she were perfect. She wasn’t. ‘Don’t talk ill of the dead,’ people say. But if we aren’t truthful about who our loved ones were, then we aren’t really remembering them. We’re creating someone who didn’t exist. Cora loved you. She loved me. But what she did was not okay. And I’m pissed off about it.” Mercedes reeled back, stunned. “Geez, Noah. Tell me how you really feel. She still deserves our compassion,” she rebuked. He nodded. “Everyone deserves compassion. And I know suicide isn’t always a conscious act. Most of the time it’s sheer desperation. It’s a moment of weakness that we can’t come back from. But regardless of illness or weakness, if we don’t own our actions and don’t demand that others own theirs, then what’s the point? We might as well give up now. We have to expect better of ourselves. We have to. I expect more of my patients, and when I expect more—lovingly, patiently—they tend to rise to that expectation. Maybe not all the way up, but they rise. They improve because I believe they can, and I believe they must. My mom was sick. But she didn’t try hard enough to get better. She found a way to cope—and that’s important—but she never varied from it. Life has to be more than coping. It has to be.” Mercedes nodded slowly, her eyes clinging to his impassioned face. She’d struck a nerve, and he wasn’t finished. “I know it’s not something we’re supposed to say. We’re supposed to be all-loving and all-compassionate all the time. But sometimes the things we aren’t supposed to say are the truths that keep us sane, that tether us to reality, that help us move the hell on! I know some of my colleagues would be shocked to hear it. But pressure—whether it’s the pressure of society, or the pressure of responsibility, or the pressure that comes with being loved and being needed—isn’t always a bad thing. You’ve heard the cliché about pressure and diamonds. It’s a cliché because it’s true. Pressure sometimes begets beautiful things.” Mercedes was silent, studying his handsome face, his tight shoulders, and his clenched fists. He was weary, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t wrong. “Begets?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye. He rolled his eyes. “You know damn well what beget means.” “In the Bible, beget means to give birth to. I wouldn’t mind giving birth to a diamond,” she mused. “You ruin all my best lectures.” There was silence from the kitchen. Silence was not good. “Gia?” Noah called. “What, Daddy?” she answered sweetly. “Are you pooping in your new princess panties?” “No. Poopin’ in box.” “What box?” His voice rose in horror. “Kitty box.” Noah was on his feet, racing toward the kitchen. Mercedes followed. Gia was naked—her Cinderella panties abandoned in the middle of the floor—and perched above the new litter box. “No!” Noah roared in horror, scooping her up and marching to the toilet. “Maybe it won’t be a turd, Noah. Maybe Gia will beget a diamond,” Mercedes chirped, trying not to laugh. “I blame you, Mer!” he called from the bathroom. “She was almost potty-trained, and now she wants to be a cat!

he was so focused on watching where Presley went that she almost didn’t see the man he was with until they stopped beneath a security light, their backs to her. She first noticed the other man then, and was shocked at his size. Then her gaze moved to the thick bush of curly hair pulled into a pony tail at the back of his neck, and she wondered how he ever got something that unruly washed and dried. It wasn’t until he turned sideways that she got a momentary glimpse of his profile. As she did, a strange, anxious feeling skittered through her belly, then quickly disappeared. The stranger didn’t matter. He couldn’t matter. It was time to make her move. She had to stop Presley now, before he went any farther. She reached toward the glove box for her handgun and taser, slipped the taser in her pocket and was reaching for the door latch when the big man turned and faced her. For a full fifteen or twenty seconds, Cat had a clear and unfettered view of his face, and in those seconds, the world fell out from under her. She didn’t know that she started moaning, or that she’d broken out in a cold sweat. All she knew was that she was no longer in her car in a San Antonio parking lot but back in her childhood home, trying to run from the intruder who’d come out of their bathroom. She was screaming for her father when the intruder’s arm slid around her chest and lifted her off her feet. She saw the strange geometric designs on his arm, then on the side of his face, as the cold slash of steel from his knife suddenly slid against her throat. The coppery scent of her own blood was thick in her nose as he dropped her to the floor, leaving her to watch as he slammed the same knife into her father over and over again. She tried to scream, but the sounds wouldn’t come. The last things she saw before everything went black were the look of sorrow on her father’s face and the demon who’d killed them running out the front door.

I shook hands with the attorney, advising him to forgive the cat he had banished from his offices since a child had been the downfall of the bird, not a feline at all. The scratches on the birdcage were months old, while the small, sticky chocolate fingerprints on the cage door were less than a week old. He looked shocked and glanced wordlessly over at his birdcage, so I walked over to the nearest window to point to the matching chocolate fingerprints where a child had released the budgie into the skies of Toronto.

With his hand on the doorknob, Tengo turned around one last time and was shocked to see a single tear escaping his father’s eye. It shone a dull silver color under the ceiling’s fluorescent light. The tear crept slowly down his cheek and fell onto his lap.

She's a nice girl and she doesn't deserve to be used as a pawn in my father's fucked-up game." "I'm sorry she's involved and I'm sorry I got you involved. We'll find the money some other way." Zane wanted to believe what John said, but how they were going to do that, he had no clue. Alright, we'll figure it out when I get there." "You on your way back tonight? John asked. "Yeah, I just need to call Missy, and, hell, I don't know.... apologize, I guess." "Apologize for sleeping with her because your father told you to? Are you sure you want to do that?" John asked. "No, I didn't sleep with her." Zane could imagine how bad he'd feel if he had. "You didn't have sex with girl?" There was shock in Rick's voice. "What's the matter? Was she ugly?

What does Mad-Eye say happened?” asked Mr. Weasley, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading up his quill, and preparing to take notes. Mr. Diggory’s head rolled its eyes. “Says he heard an intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the house, but was ambushed by his dustbins.” “What did the dustbins do?” asked Mr. Weasley, scribbling frantically. “Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish everywhere, as far as I can tell,” said Mr. Diggory. “Apparently one of them was still rocketing around when the please-men turned up —” Mr. Weasley groaned. “And what about the intruder?” “Arthur, you know Mad-Eye,” said Mr. Diggory’s head, rolling its eyes again. “Someone creeping into his yard in the dead of night? More likely there’s a very shell-shocked cat wandering around somewhere, covered in potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot get their hands on Mad-Eye, he’s had it — think of his record —

But the best part—and I say best with utter and unmistakable disgust—is me tearing around the stage screaming, ‘No more wire hangers,’ while the cast twerks in terror.” Finally I’d rendered them mute. They didn’t laugh. They didn’t snicker. They didn’t go for their balls. The cats simply stared in shock.

The name of the zoo was the Queensland Reptile and Fauna Park. As I crossed the parking area, I prepared myself for disappointment. I am going to see a collection of snakes, lizards, and miserable creatures in jars, feel terribly sorry for them, and leave. It was October 1991. I was Terri Raines, a twenty-seven-year-old Oregon girl in Australia on an unlikely quest to find homes for rescued American cougars. A reptile park wasn’t going to be interested in a big cat. I headed through the pleasant spring heat toward the park thinking pessimistic thoughts. This is going to be a big waste of time. But the prospect of seeing new species of wildlife drew me in. I walked through the modest entrance with some friends, only to be shocked at what I found on the other side: the most beautiful, immaculately kept gardens I had ever encountered. Peacocks strutted around, kangaroos and wallabies roamed freely, and palm trees lined all the walkways. It was like a little piece of Eden.

We’ll be heading home tomorrow.” My head jerked up. So did Mama’s. Had Daddy’s announcement shocked her that much—or not at all? I couldn’t tell. “So soon?” The words came out before I thought. I clamped my lips shut. Mama rolled up her needlepoint. “And of course you’ll be coming with us, Rebekah Grace.” The words I had been waiting for but didn’t want to hear. Frank looked as taut as a laundry line. I shoved James’s pants back in the basket, trying to keep my voice steady. “I . . . I hadn’t planned to.” “But you can’t stay here—alone.” Her gaze raced back and forth between Frank’s face and mine. “It’s unseemly.” Frank clenched his fists, his eyes flashing anger. He looked like a cat ready to pounce. “No one around here seems to think such a thing. Your daughter has cared for my children. I happen to think the Lord sent her here on their behalf.” My head jerked up. Did he really believe that? Mama stared at Frank as if she’d never seen him before. No color lit her cheeks, but a slight tremor moved her lips. “Yet you’ve ruined her all the same.” I gasped. “Mama!” “I don’t intend to take advantage of your daughter in any way at all, Mrs. Hendricks.” An edge hard as iron encased his words. I sucked in my breath and held it. “I guarantee you’ll have your daughter home before the end of March.” Almost six weeks. What was he planning to do between now and then? Court a new wife? Hire a new housekeeper? Would he let me be privy to his plans, or did he think I wouldn’t need to know what would become of the children? “Are y’all going to plan my whole life for me? Don’t I have any say?” I jammed my fists on my hips, my cheeks burning. Daddy crossed the room, took Mama by the hand. “You’re welcome to come with us, Rebekah, but I’m thinking Frank could use your help.” “But—” Mama bit off her words at Daddy’s look. “We can trust Rebekah to do what is right, Margaret.” “Fine. But if she stays, I’m buying her ticket home myself.” She glared at Frank. “You can pick it up at the station on your next trip to town.

Let's Play Cat & Mouse It was a beautiful day as he walked the streets, filled with flowers of summer and the green of the trees. The sun just rising, the freshness in the air. In the distance, something rolled across the road, pushed and played with by a fluffy, tiger like cat. It rolled, and was poked and pushed to the edge … Stop that, Stop that, Stop that now … it’s tiny little legs on the floor as it stretched as tall as it could, arms in front, as it looked up at fluffy … No, No, No You can’t catch me … Shocked and amazed was fluffy … As his morning breakfast, scurried and hurried along the side of the road … Goodbye, Good Day, have a wonderful Day … As they continued their day … No more time for Let’s play cat and mouse. by Natasha Parker Copyright © 2014 by Luisa Natasha Parker

DOMESTIC CATS DATE BACK JUST 4,000 YEARS OR SO.

I obsessed over which Ani DiFranco song to add to Lainie’s tape. When we first started dating, I had no idea who Ani DiFranco was. Lainie, shocked to baby-dyke hell, made it her mission to convert me. And yo, it took a lot of work. Ani was crazy white girl shit. Her music evoked images of Irish bagpipes and stray cats howling in heat. Her garbled singing voice made my eyes water, and I couldn’t ever be sure of what she was singing about. But with enough practice and encouragement from Lainie, I broke down Ani’s gay girl code and understood that I too was just a little girl in a training bra trying to figure shit out.

I was shocked. I had lived with Cabbage for four years and I thought we understood each other. It can be brutal when cats start to speak your language.

The ordinary fears of daily life. Healthy fears. Womanly, wifely, motherly ones: the children may point at the wretch with the hunch and speak in a voice he will hear; the cat has fleas again, they will get in the sofa; one’s face looks smeared, it’s because of the heat; is the burner on under the beans? the washing machine’s obscure disease may reoccur, it rumbles on rinse and rattles on wash; my god it’s already eleven o’clock; which one of you has lost a galosh? So it was amid the worries of our ordinary life I bent, innocent and improperly armed, over the bug that had come undone. Let me think back on the shock . . . .

Every time a human walks out of a room, something with more feet walks in. For every job a human holds, there is a mouse with the same job and doing it better. You don't see a cat that shocked every day of the week. Even her whiskers looked scandalized. Time you saw a bit of the world, if you're to find your place in it, the horse said. Nobody ever learned who he was by staying in the stable. He was the picture of skepticism. Also pomposity. He was so noble a figure that I could scarcely look at him full on. Every bit of his bearing was living proof of the grandeur mice can rise to. British mice. Of course they would be foreign, being bats. Romanian, Transylvanian, Something. The Belgians followed in a great mob. And hard on their heels the Spanish, their claws clicking like castanets across the marble. Then the Russians in all their barbaric splendor. Romanov rodents in caterpillar-fur caps. Even one of the Gorgonzola princes from Italy, looking very blue-veined.

Entering the city of Monrovia on Tubman Boulevard, the road suddenly became paved and a little smoother. Most of the other streets were made of sand and coated with used crankcase oil, making them extremely slick. I couldn’t believe the huge water-filled potholes everywhere; couldn’t they fill them in? A major problem was that there was no way of knowing how deep the holes were since they were full of water…. Jimmy had his hands full bouncing along in a car that didn’t seem to have shocks, and from the looks of the tires I don’t believe the front wheels had ever been aligned. Some of the streets went from being a rutted, muddy mess, to being exposed bed-rock with shale stone filling in the worst holes. Somehow Jimmy skillfully navigated these streets, at what I considered at the time, as being reckless speeds. We passed simple dwellings pieced together from flotsam, debris, and recycled planks or pieces of plywood, including what appeared to be random soft drink signs and the likes. It reminded me of some of the Mexican border towns I had been to. There were mangy dogs picking through the piles of garbage, without much hope of finding anything edible. The raw garbage, scattered on the streets, had obviously been picked through already by people or other feral beasts trying to live off the land. If the dogs and cats left anything behind, I could only imagine the rats getting it!

He had been screaming fit to kill, but when she found his hole at last and stuck her finger up in it, the shock was so great he was suddenly quiet. Even now on the hottest day anyone in Medallion could remember—a day so hot flies slept and cats were splaying their fur like quills, a day so hot pregnant wives leaned up against trees and cried, and women remembering some three-month-old hurt put ground glass in their lovers’ food and the men looked at the food and wondered if there was glass in it and ate it anyway because it was too hot to resist eating it—even on this hottest of days in the hot spell, Eva shivered from the biting cold and stench of that outhouse.

BY ANDY GRIFFITHS AND TERRY DENTON Just Tricking! Just Annoying! Just Stupid! Just Crazy! Just Disgusting! Just Shocking! Just Macbeth! Just Doomed! The Bad Book The Very Bad Book The Cat on the Mat is Flat The Big Fat Cow That Goes Kapow What Bumosaur is That? What Body Part is That? The 13-Storey Treehouse The 26-Storey Treehouse The 39-Storey Treehouse The 52-Storey Treehouse The 65-Storey Treehouse The 78-Storey Treehouse Once Upon a Slime: 45 fun ways to get writing ... FAST! The Treehouse Fun Book The Treehouse Fun Book 2

Cat sat in a rocking recliner, her foot pushing the chair into motion steadily. She looked up when he came down the stairs but didn’t say anything. Harper felt like a royal ass when he saw her tear-stained cheeks and the tissues clutched in her hand. Cat was a strong woman. It took a lot to see her cry. The fact that she was crying now made him feel like the lowest kind of scum. Crossing the room, he knelt down in front of her, stopping the chair. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond to you. I’m kind of in shock. When I fell in love with you I just always thought it was forever. Even though my lifestyle didn’t create stability, you did, Cat. You were always my stability. Walking away was the hardest thing I ever had to do. But I did it in the hopes that I could make myself better. It’s not like a damned driving test where if I mark a wrong answer I get to take the test over again. I’m a trained killer. If I had screwed up in our house you or the kids were going to pay for it, possibly with your lives. I couldn’t chance that.” Fresh tears rolled down her face and her expression crumpled. “I know. I knew that was why you left. Or at least that was what I had hoped. But it’s been eighteen damn months—a year and a half—with you not letting us have any contact. If you had talked to us, or wrote…just something to let us know that we weren’t all alone.” Cat sobbed and it broke his heart. Pulling her into his arms then down onto his lap, he held her as she let all her emotions out. Tears choked his own throat as he cradled her to him. “If I had called I would not have been able to stay away.” And that was the gist of his angst. God, yes, he wanted to be with them, but he was willing to give up his own happiness if it kept them safe. Cat’s arms wrapped around his neck and she looked up at him. “I have always had more faith in you than you have yourself. Always.” Nuzzling his face into her damp hair, he nodded. “I know that. Without a doubt. And whether you were with me or not your faith kept me going.” Relaxing into his hold, Cat’s tears began to slow. “I love you, Cat.” Her arms tightened around his neck till he thought something was going to pop. “I love you too, damn it.

That was readily apparent on occasions such as the night when one of the twins had accidentally stumbled over Beatrix’s cat Lucky, who had let out the particular earsplitting screech of an irritated feline. And then both the twins started squalling, while Catherine had rushed to soothe them. Christopher had nearly jumped out of his skin. The uproar had sent a shock through him, leaving him tense and trembling, and he had lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut as he was transported in an instant to a battlefield beneath an exploding sky. A few deep breaths, and then he had become aware of Beatrix sitting beside him. She didn’t question him, only stayed quiet and near. And then Albert had come and put his chin on his knee, regarding him with somber brown eyes. “He understands,” Beatrix had said softly. Christopher reached out to pet the rough head, and Albert nuzzled into his hand, a tongue curling against his wrist. Yes, Albert understood. He had suffered beneath the same rain of shells and cannonfire, knew the feeling of a bullet tearing through his flesh. “We’re a pair, aren’t we, old fellow?” Christopher had murmured.

But the media were about to go cold turkey on the whole latter half of the twentieth century, and the shock was going to make them irritable.

Oddly enough, Axl Rose of Guns N’ Roses was a big Depeche Mode fan and he invited them to join him at a heavy metal nightclub, the Cat House. However, when he went off to a friend’s Beverly Hills barbecue and allegedly shot a pig, Depeche Mode were sufficiently shocked to issue a statement: ‘... as strict vegetarians, the band were appalled by Rose’s behaviour and do not wish to associate themselves with anyone who goes around shooting pigs for fun.

Here, and shockingly few other places in this country, men are paid to increase knowledge, to work toward no end but that.' 'That's very generous of General Forge and Foundry Company.' 'Nothing generous about it. New knowledge is the most valuable commodity on earth. The more truth we have to work with, the richer we become.' Had I been a Bokonoist then, that statement would have made me howl.

1) Aristide grabbed the arms of his folding chair and turned to us so fast he almost flipped his chair over. 2) Ker stood up so fast she stepped on her own tail in the process and fell down again. 3) Something loud crashed in the garage—Charon had obviously heard Shiloh’s question as well thanks to his elf hearing. I remained perfectly still—not because I wasn’t shocked by the question. No. It was only because of years of practice at passing as a normal cat that made me remain in Noctus’s arms. Well, practice, and maybe I was paralyzed in my shock. Noctus didn’t bat an eye, didn’t react to any of us, he didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he said. This time Aristide did tip over, but that was all I had time to see before I bonelessly slid off Noctus’s shoulder and pooled into his arms like goo, gazing up at him in horror. Have you lost your mind!? What could possibly inspire you to say that?

Essa didn’t need Gata’s surge of welcome to alert her that this was a friend: she had already recognized this man with a shock and a thrill which both exhilarated her and took her aback. How was it that this total stranger was already familiar? As if she had dreamed him. She had heard that this could happen but had never believed it. Now it picked her up and chastised her like a cat shakes a kitten, briskly and lovingly. “He was staring and smiling, held in this motionless moment which was not nearly as long as it seemed.

Scourge!” Firestar yowled. “Turn and face me!” The small black cat whipped around, letting go of Cloudtail in his shock. “How . . . I killed you.” “You did,” Firestar spat back at him. “But I am a leader with nine lives who fights alongside StarClan. Can you say as much?

What a luxury a cat is, the moments of shocking and startling pleasure in a day, the feel of the beast, the soft sleekness under your palm, the warmth when you wake on a cold night, the grace and charm even in a quite ordinary workaday puss.

The blade cuts through his throat, and his eyes widen, nearly silent from the shock.

Sadie, our cat-who-may-be-an-evil-overlord-in-disguise, heads me off. Leaping in front of the kitchen door, she arches her back in a ripple of fur and hisses. Sadie is the ugliest cat I have ever seen. She has white, fluffy hair that looks like it’s been shocked with electricity in all the wrong places, unpleasant green eyes, and a flat face, as if someone dropped an iron on her when she was little. A face only my parents love.

Right. Forgot about that. It must be a terrible shock for fine ladies, never to see a proper cock until they’re married.

Somewhere, he thought, there was this boy’s mother, who had trembled with protective concern over his groping steps, while teaching him to walk, who had measured his baby formulas with a jeweler’s caution, who had obeyed with a zealot’s fervor the latest words of science on his diet and hygiene, protecting his unhardened body from germs—then had sent him to be turned into a tortured neurotic by the men who taught him that he had no mind and must never attempt to think. Had she fed him tainted refuse, he thought, had she mixed poison into his food, it would have been more kind and less fatal. He thought of all the living species that train their young in the art of survival, the cats who teach their kittens to hunt, the birds who spend such strident effort on teaching their fledglings to fly—yet man, whose tool of survival is the mind, does not merely fail to teach a child to think, but devotes the child’s education to the purpose of destroying his brain, of convincing him that thought is futile and evil, before he has started to think. From the first catch-phrases flung at a child to the last, it is like a series of shocks to freeze his motor, to undercut the power of his consciousness. “Don’t ask so many questions, children should be seen and not heard!”—“Who are you to think? It’s so, because I say so!”—“Don’t argue, obey!”—“Don’t try to understand, believe!”—“Don’t rebel, adjust!”—“Don’t stand out, belong!”—“Don’t struggle, compromise!”—“Your heart is more important than your mind!”—“Who are you to know? Your parents know best!”—“Who are you to know? Society knows best!” “Who are you to know? The bureaucrats know best!”—“Who are you to object? All values are relative!”—“Who are you to want to escape a thug’s bullet? That’s only a personal prejudice!

Somewhere, he thought, there was this boy’s mother, who had trembled with protective concern over his groping steps, while teaching him to walk, who had measured his baby formulas with a jeweler’s caution, who had obeyed with a zealot’s fervor the latest words of science on his diet and hygiene, protecting his unhardened body from germs—then had sent him to be turned into a tortured neurotic by the men who taught him that he had no mind and must never attempt to think. Had she fed him tainted refuse, he thought, had she mixed poison into his food, it would have been more kind and less fatal. He thought of all the living species that train their young in the art of survival, the cats who teach their kittens to hunt, the birds who spend such strident effort on teaching their fledglings to fly—yet man, whose tool of survival is the mind, does not merely fail to teach a child to think, but devotes the child’s education to the purpose of destroying his brain, of convincing him that thought is futile and evil, before he has started to think. From the first catch-phrases flung at a child to the last, it is like a series of shocks to freeze his motor, to undercut the power of his consciousness. “Don’t ask so many questions, children should be seen and not heard!”—“Who are you to think? It’s so, because I say so!”—“Don’t argue, obey!”—“Don’t try to understand, believe!”—“Don’t rebel, adjust!”—“Don’t stand out, belong!”—“Don’t struggle, compromise!”—“Your heart is more important than your mind!”—“Who are you to know? Your parents know best!”—“Who are you to know? Society knows best!” “Who are you to know? The bureaucrats know best!”—“Who are you to object? All values are relative!”—“Who are you to want to escape a thug’s bullet? That’s only a personal prejudice!” Men would shudder, he thought, if they saw a mother bird plucking the feathers from the wings of her young, then pushing him out of the nest to struggle for survival—yet that was what they did to their children. Armed with nothing but meaningless phrases, this boy had been thrown to fight for existence, he had hobbled and groped through a brief, doomed effort, he had screamed his indignant, bewildered protest—and had perished in his first attempt to soar on his mangled wings.

They get to stay in their Outpost when they stay in their Outpost. Now, we are both happy. ◆ Isn’t this… giving in to the cat? Sure. ◆ Doesn’t this make the cat… our Boss? Yes. ◆ Our cat knows better than we do when it comes to what they need. Once we have gifted them their kitchen Outpost, we can simply move them from the counter to their Outpost and be happy and pleased they have a spot to be in without getting into trouble. Explain why we gave them this Outpost — it was for their own safety. Because the next time we see our cat on the counter, we should act shocked — shocked — that they are on the counter. ◆ Project worry, not anger. Tell them this isn’t a good place for them, and use a cleaning spray on that area with great gusto, and clean it off. This takes care of our cleanliness issues, and it also lets our cat know we are looking out for them. That area was about to be sprayed. It could happen again at any moment. ◆ Is it ever too late? ◆ No, we can always do what we should have done in the first place. ◆ It is easier to train us to do it right than argue with the cat. Why can’t the cat just stay out of the kitchen? They have a strong interest in where the food happens. Why can’t the cat just leave the kitchen when we want them to? Because they have a strong interest in being with their people and sharing their lives.

They get to stay in their Outpost when they stay in their Outpost. Now, we are both happy. ◆ Isn’t this… giving in to the cat? Sure. ◆ Doesn’t this make the cat… our Boss? Yes. ◆ Our cat knows better than we do when it comes to what they need. Once we have gifted them their kitchen Outpost, we can simply move them from the counter to their Outpost and be happy and pleased they have a spot to be in without getting into trouble. Explain why we gave them this Outpost — it was for their own safety. Because the next time we see our cat on the counter, we should act shocked — shocked — that they are on the counter. ◆ Project worry, not anger. Tell them this isn’t a good place for them, and use a cleaning spray on that area with great gusto, and clean it off. This takes care of our cleanliness issues, and it also lets our cat know we are looking out for them. That area was about to be sprayed. It could happen again at any moment. ◆ Is it ever too late? ◆ No, we can always do what we should have done in the first place. ◆ It is easier to train us to do it right than argue with the cat. Why can’t the cat just stay out of the kitchen? They have a strong interest in where the food happens. Why can’t the cat just leave the kitchen when we want them to? Because they have a strong interest in being with their people and sharing their lives. We got the cat for companionship. We are getting it.

The only tried and true method of dealing with shock was time: you had to let it run its course, and then your mind settled over its new and troubling set of facts like a clean sheet draped over a body.

That fall, they moved in a greyhound named Target, a lapdog named Ginger, the four cats, and the birds. They threw out all their artificial plants and put live plants in every room. Staff members brought their kids to hang out after school; friends and family put in a garden at the back of the home and a playground for the kids. It was shock therapy.

Raising his fist, Hayder knocked on the condo door but didn’t wait for an answer. Being the pride’s beta gave him certain liberties, such as access to all the units in the building— a building owned and managed by, you guessed it, the pride. Slapping his hand on the control panel alongside the door, he waited for the telltale click before turning the handle to open it. In he walked, uninvited, only to stop dead. Almost literally, and with good reason, given a gun wavered in front of his face. Bullets fired point-blank never boded well. However, the weapon wasn’t the most shocking thing he faced. No, that was reserved for the possessive growl of his lion and the unwavering sureness that gobsmacked him when he caught the scent of the gun wielder. A woman. But not just any woman. Mine. Our mate. Uh-oh. Like most shapeshifters, Hayder had heard of the so-called certainty that hit certain couples when they first met. The zing of awareness. The moment of recognition. Or, in his case, the slam and resounding clang of a door on a cell labeled Monogamy. Argh. Not the dreaded M word. A cowardly lion might have run away, but Hayder wasn’t one to fear anything, especially not the short and trembling woman in front of him. Barely reaching his chin with deep brown hair held back in a ponytail, she didn’t possess a fearsome mien. On the contrary, everything about her appeared soft and delicate, from the silky smoothness of her skin and the long lashes framing the biggest brown eyes to her cupid’s-bow lips, pursed and pink. She was also, judging by her scent, a Lycan. Cats and dogs aren’t supposed to mix. But tell that to his lion, who urged him to give her cheek a lick to say hello. Uh, no. Somehow slobbering over a woman, armed with a gun, didn’t seem appropriate. Introductions, though, might help. “Are you Jeoff’s sister?” he asked when she didn’t seem inclined to speak. Nor did she lower her weapon, but he allowed it for the moment. The acrid stink of fear rolled off her and agitated his lion. She fears. Feared him and Hayder didn’t like it one bit. “Who are you? What do you want?” Her words might have proven more forceful if they’d emerged less breathy and high pitched. “I’m Hayder.” He might have said more, like I am the most awesome beta the pride could ever hope for. He could have boasted he was a lion with a mane only slightly less impressive than that of Arik, the alpha king. He might have probably said something witty and flirty too, if she hadn’t almost shot him!

She shoved me out of the bed! The realization hit him as hard as the floor. His feline grace failed him. Far from hanging its head in shame, his inner lion rolled in mirth, tufted tail practically wagging. Not funny. Except it was. He had a feeling this more assertive side of Arabella was his fault. Since the moment they’d met, he’d encouraged her to not take any shit, and apparently she’d decided to start with him. Dammit. When he’d told her to not let the world stomp all over her, he should have specified his exemption. I’m her mate. Isn’t there a rule that says she can’t kick me out of bed? Except she’d yet to realize what he had. Was it only a day ago since his life changed? Not even. At this rate, he’d be picking out fucking China patterns by noon. Completely emasculated and by a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. Flipping to his knees, he sat up and rested his chin on the mattress. Arabella faced him, eyes wary, breathing shallow as she waited for his reaction. More like she waited to see if he’d explode. She’d learn. Hayder would never harm her, but he would use his infamous kitty-cat eyes against her. He stared. You know you want me. You know you need me. Come on, baby. Melt. Melt for your lion. She stared right back. Hmm, this wasn’t working as planned. He let the left side of his lip curl into a grin, tugging his cheek and popping his infamous dimple. “I know what you’re doing.” “What?” “Trying to manipulate me into letting you back into bed.” “Is it working?” For a moment her expression shifted, a quick flip of emotions as she struggled to answer. “Yes it’s working. But I wish it wasn’t.” “Why? Why fight it?” “Because I think I need time.” It turned out there was something more powerful than his dimple. Her honesty. He groaned. “I think you were sent to kill me. Fine. If you insist, I’ll respect you even if I’d rather debauch you.” Her eyes widened. “Respect doesn’t mean I’m going to lie, baby. I want you. Bad. But I’ll listen to what you want. For now.” And, yes, he said it ominously. Let her think about it. Think about him. Soon even she wouldn’t be able to deny they were meant for each other. He stood, all six foot plus naked feet of him. And, yes, that did put a certain part of his anatomy in perfect view of a certain shocked gaze. A sucked-in breath, cheeks that darkened, a certain awareness sizzling between them. She couldn’t hope to hide her pleasure or interest in what she saw. “Sweet dreams, baby.” He winked and then turned, resisting an urge to catch her staring at his ass. He knew she was. He could feel the crazy heat as she traced his path out of the room. Go back. Want to snuggle. His lion couldn’t understand why they were back in the living room with its cramped couch that wouldn’t allow him to stretch out. Why couldn’t they snuggle in the nice warm bed and, even better, cuddle with a nice warm mate? Respect, my furry friend. A lion had no use for respect though. His worldview was much simpler. Ours. Bed. Hungry. Not hungry for a steak but, rather, a sweet, creamy pie. Hayder groaned. No need to keep reminding him of what he was missing. He knew. He hated it, but her wants had to take precedence over his. Argh.

I used to have a cat, an old fighting tom, who sprang through the open window by my bed and pummeled my chest, barely sheathing his claws. I’ve been bloodied and mauled, wrung, dazzled, drawn. I taste salt on my lips in the early morning; I surprise my eyes in the mirror and they are ashes, or fiery sprouts, and I gape appalled or full of breath. The planet whirls along and dreaming. Power broods, spins, and lurches down. The planet and the power meet with a shock. They fuse and tumble, lightning, ground fire; they part, mute, submitting, and touch again with hiss and cry. The tree with the lights in it buzzes into flame and the cast-rock mountains ring. Emerson saw it. “I dreamed that I floated at will in the great Ether, and I saw this world floating also not far off, but diminished to the size of an apple. Then an angel took it in his hand and brought it to me and said, ‘This must thou eat.’ And I ate the world.” All of it. All of it intricate, speckled, gnawed, fringed, and free. Israel’s priests offered the wave breast and the heave shoulder together, freely, in full knowledge, for thanksgiving. They waved, they heaved, and neither gesture was whole without the other, and both meant a wide-eyed and keen-eyed thanks. Go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet, said the bell. A sixteenth-century alchemist wrote of the philosopher’s stone, “One finds it in the open country, in the village and in the town. It is in everything which God created. Maids throw it on the street. Children play with it.” The giant water bug ate the world. And like Billy Bray, I go my way, and my left foot says “Glory,” and my right foot says “Amen”: in and out of Shadow Creek, upstream and down, exultant, in a daze, dancing, to the twin silver trumpets of praise.

Despite the perma-shock in which many of us have lived our entire lives, with alarms in our ears made only more shrill by 24 hour news cycles, and unrelenting internet death row photos of dogs and cats at animal shelters, we inexplicably expect our shocking truths--that ours is a society built on oppression, rape and murder--to get heard the first time through. When the truths aren't heard, we end up beyond frustrated. We butt up against other people's moral hypocrisies and shut down as we hear the same stories about people who are compassionate but still eat animals. We grow weary of taking people's hands and walking them down the road to see the more than 23 million chickens killed for food every day in the U.S. And we forget that people can't see the animals hiding in their words and signifiers; we forget that we can't see them either. Beyond beef and bacon, there are other words that hide animals: deforestation, road construction, housing development, war. We must learn to be attuned to those words. And we have to learn how to speak kindly to people who are thinking about them, even if they don't recognize the absent referents in their speech. When we are thinking about how oppressors have guns, prisons, and slaughterhouses, we remember that words are weapons. When we turn them on each other and our potential allies, we forget. Out of frustration over all the things that haven't gotten better, we resort to name calling, dismiss the possibility of bridge building with other movements and within our own, and retreat back to internet cliques to discuss cupcake recipes or bash something read in the Huffington Post.

Farm animals aren't the only ones that suffer at the hands of human beings. Scientists use animals for their research. It's not just rats and guinea pigs – cats, dogs, monkeys and even chimpanzees can be found in laboratories, many of them suffering pain and distress as they are drugged or given electric shocks. Singer's test to see if any research is morally acceptable is this: would we be prepared to perform the same experiment on a brain-damaged human being? If not, he believes, it is not right to perform the experiment on an animal with a similar level of mental awareness. This is a tough test, and not many experiments would pass it. In practice, then, Singer is very strongly against using animals in research. The

He’s not in his right mind, and unless we can get him back on a leash, we might have no choice but to terminate him.” “Terminate him?” She couldn’t help but yell the words, the very implication shocking. “He’s not a freaking dog or cat. He’s a person.” “And a wolf, June-bug. Never forget that. He might look human, but inside lurks a beast, and should that beast break the chains holding it, there’s no telling what it will do.

warmth of the day was making her sleepy, too. “Then you can go and do whatever it is you apprentices do,” she murmured. When Firepaw had cleared away Yellowfang’s dirt, he left her dozing and made his way to the gorse tunnel. He was keen to get to the stream and rinse his paws. “Firepaw!” a voice called from the side of the clearing. Firepaw turned. It was Halftail. “Where are you off to?” meowed the old cat curiously. “You ought to be helping with the preparations.” “I’ve just been putting mouse bile on Yellowfang’s ticks,” replied Firepaw. Amusement flickered through Halftail’s whiskers. “So now you’re off to the nearest stream! Well, don’t come back without fresh-kill. We need as much as we can find.” “Yes, Halftail,” Firepaw replied. He made his way out of the camp and up the side of the ravine. He trotted down to the stream where he and Graypaw had hunted on the day he had found Yellowfang. Without hesitating he jumped down into the cold, clear water. It came up to his haunches, and wet his belly fur. The shock made him gasp, and he shivered. A rustle in the bushes above him made him look up, although the familiar scent that reached his nose told him there was nothing to be alarmed about. “What are you doing in there?” Graypaw and Ravenpaw were standing looking at him as if he were mad. “Mouse bile.” Firepaw grimaced. “Don’t ask! Where are Lionheart and Tigerclaw?” “They’ve gone to join the next patrol,” answered Graypaw. “They ordered us to spend the rest of the afternoon hunting.” “Halftail told me the same thing,” Firepaw mewed, flinching as a chilly current of water rushed around his paws. “Everyone’s busy back at camp. You’d think we were about to be attacked at any moment.” He climbed up onto the bank, dripping. “Who says we won’t be?” mewed Ravenpaw, his eyes flicking from side to side as if he expected an enemy patrol to leap

In Walked Jim September 2013: Entering his first morning staff meeting as FBI director, Jim Comey loped to the head of the table, put down his briefing books, and lowered his six-foot-eight-inch, shirtsleeved self into a huge leather chair. He leaned the chair so far back on its hind legs that he lay practically flat, testing gravity. Then he sat up, stretched like a big cat, pushed the briefing books to the side, and said, as if he were talking to a friend, I don’t want to talk about these today. I’d rather talk about some other things first. He talked about how effective leaders immediately make their expectations clear and proceeded to do just that for us. Said he would expect us to love our jobs, expect us to take care of ourselves … I remember less of what he said than the easygoing way he spoke and the absolute clarity of his day-one priority: building relationships with each member of his senior team. Comey continually reminded the FBI leadership that strong relationships with one another were critical to the institution’s functioning. One day, after we reviewed the briefing books, he said, Okay, now I want to go around the room, and I want you all to say one thing about yourselves that no one else here knows about you. One hard-ass from the criminal division stunned the room to silence when he said, My wife and I, we really love Disney characters, and all our vacation time we spend in the Magic Kingdom. Another guy, formerly a member of the hostage-rescue team, who carefully tended his persona as a dead-eyed meathead—I thought his aesthetic tastes ran the gamut from YouTube videos of snipers in Afghanistan to YouTube videos of Bigfoot sightings—turned out to be an art lover. I really like the old masters, he said, but my favorite is abstract expressionism. This hokey parlor game had the effect Comey intended. It gave people an opportunity to be interesting and funny with colleagues in a way that most had rarely been before. Years later, I remember it like yesterday. That was Jim’s effect on almost everyone he worked with. I observed how he treated people. Tell me your story, he would say, then listen as if there were only the two of you in the whole world. You were, of course, being carefully assessed at the same time that you were being appreciated and accepted. He once told me that people’s responses to that opening helped him gauge their ability to communicate. Over the next few years I would sit in on hundreds of meetings with him. All kinds of individuals and organizations would come to Comey with their issues. No matter how hostile they were when they walked in the door, they would always walk out on a cloud of Comey goodness. Sometimes, after the door had closed, he would look at me and say, That was a mess. Jim has the same judgmental impulse that everyone has. He is complicated, with many different sides, and he is so good at showing his best side—which is better than most people’s—that his bad side, which is not as bad as most people’s, can seem more shocking on the rare moments when it flashes to the surface.

Oh, Tom!” she exclaimed in a voice of deep sympathy. She leaned toward me, studying my face. “Poor man, what’s happened to you?” Empty as a hollow log when the mice are eaten. “My wolf died.” It shocked me that I spoke the truth so bluntly. Jinna was silent, staring at me. I knew she could not understand. I did not expect her to understand. But then, as her helples silence lengthened, I felt very much as if she might understand, for she offered me no useless words. Abruptly, she dropped her knitting in her lap and leaned across to put her hand on my forearm. “Will you be all right?” she asked me. It was not an empty question; she genuinely listened for my reply. “In time,” I told her, and for the first time, I admitted that was true. As disloyal as the thought felt, I knew that as time passed, I would be myself again. And in that moment, I felt for the first time the sensation that Black Rolf had tried to describe to me. The wolfish part of my soul stirred, and, Yes, you will be yourself again, and that is as it should be, I heard near as clearly as if Nighteyes had truly shared the thought with me. Like remembering, but more so, Rolf had told me. I sat very still, savoring the sensation. Then it passed, and a shiver ran over me. “Drink your tea, you’re taking a chill,” Jinna advised me, and leaned down to toss another piece of wood on the fire. I did as she suggested. As I set the cup down, I glanced up at the charm over the mantle. The changeable light from the flames gilded and then hid the beads. Hospitality. The tea was warm and sweet and soothing, the cat purred on my lap, and a woman looked at me fondly. Something in me eased another notch. Petting the cat makes you feel better, Fennel asserted smugly.

Are you injured?” Mo Ran was too stunned to react. His eyes were wide, and his mouth opened in shock as he gaped wordlessly. Chu Wanning looked him up and down and detected no obvious injuries, so he turned back to the Elder Immortal. “Weren’t you asking who his master was a moment ago?” He released his terrifyingly potent spiritual energy and slowly descended to the ground, where he said, simply and sharply, with not a single superfluous word, “Chu Wanning of Sisheng Peak. Show me your best move.

It’s hard to say exactly when, but I think I was pretty far gone by the time I kissed you. I don’t think I’d have worked up the nerve if I hadn’t loved you, at least a little.” A fleeting look of shock passes over Eddie’s face. Not, surely, at the sentiment, but because Mark said it aloud. Mark doesn’t mean to be stingy with his affection, not with Eddie, never with Eddie—and he doesn’t think he is, exactly, but he should give Eddie more. He already knows that he’ll always give Eddie more.

He probably ought to be more shocked by this than he actually is. But when he looks at Mark, he just thinks: Of course I'd take that risk.