Call me Pudgie. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no catnip, and nothing particular to interest me in the living room, I thought I would loiter a little and see the watery part of the apartment. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before the humans' television, and bringing up the rear of my buttocks so that they can view my anus; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper paw, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the hallway and methodically scratching and biting the humans' ankles until they fall down to the wood floor - then, I account it high time to get to the bathroom as soon as I can. This is my substitute for sex since I have been neutered. With a philosophical flourish Fido fetches his sticks; I quietly take to the WC. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all cats in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the litter.
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