““you reckon it could have been Pete?” I glanced off to the east and saw Pete basking in the sun beside the garden gate. He was purring and washing himself, which means that he was spitting in his paw and wiping the spit over his face. That’s the way a cat takes a bath. I take tremendous pride in my personal appearance. I cultivate a rich, manly smell. I bathe regularly, in the sewer. Now, let’s look at Pete. He takes spit-baths. Has anyone ever seen him in the sewer? No sir. But has Sally May ever referred to him as a stinking cat? No sir. So there you are, and that’s one of two dozen reasons why I hate cats and Pete in particular. I had to get that off my chest. Now, where was I? “Well, Drover, we’ve broken””
