Read by Elizabeth Bower
My sister-in-law had a cat, a black cat with a square bulky body. It didn’t have a tail. It was what they call a Manx cat. I know you don’t want to hear about the cat, but wait. The thing was it was always hiding under things whenever you came in a room. It wasn’t afraid, just angry. It would hide under the bed, under the sofa, under the hide-a-bed in the living room. Squeeze its tailless butt under there like if it didn’t, it wouldn’t be able to control itself. It might kill you for invading its territory. It would lie on its back under there and scratch and claw at the fiber to tell you it meant business. You had to get a broom handle just to get it out and pet it. That thing wasn’t even a cat. It hated people. It should’ve been a Lynx, not a Manx. It should’ve been thrown out into the snow bank where it belonged. Why bother owning a cat that’s not even a cat? Cats are difficult enough.