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Runner up: Puss's glamour gloves
By Nikki van de Car
That's it. The claws are finally coming out.
I had a good thing going with the miller: I caught mice, he fed me. Simple, direct, and fair. And then that ungrateful son of his – I never trusted him – threatened to eat me! Can you believe that?
But I didn't break my cool. I'm a cat. We land on our feet – or scramble really fast to get up, so it looks like we landed on our feet (an important skill). I rallied, and for the cost of a pair of boots and a bag, I got the lazy slob a castle, loyal subjects, and a truly beautiful queen.
Okay, so maybe I didn't really need the boots. But they were beautiful – suede calfskin the colour of burnt sugar... mmm... irresistible. And really a bargain when you consider that thanks entirely to me, a man who should by all rights have been grinding flour for the rest of his life is now eating his bread off of golden platters!
All I wanted was a simple thank you. "Puss, you're the best!" would have sufficed, or perhaps a lifetime's supply of mice. Or an unlimited account at the cobbler's. You know, something small.
But noooooo. Not even so much as a rub between the ears. Well, I've had it. The gloves are coming off. Or at least, they're opening up, because the claws are coming out, baby.
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