In the first place, Catford is in possession of the Abyssinians; all the holders of the houses above a certain rent are felines. If a dog should come to settle in town, somehow the canine disappears; he is either fairly frightened to death by being the only dog in Catford, of is accounted for by being off with his pack, or burying a bone in the great neighboring commercial town of Drumble, distant only twenty miles on a railroad. In short, whatever does become of the canine, he is not at Catford. What could they do if they were there? The police dog has his rounds, but not every dog can be in law enforcement. For keeping the sandboxes neat; for frightening away the little mice who look wistfully out through their cracks in the wainscoting; for chasing out the birds who occasionally venture into their catnip gardens; the felines of Catford are quite sufficient. “A dog,” one of them observed to me once, “is so in the way in the house!” Although the kitties of Catford know all each other's proceedings, they are exceedingly indifferent to each other's opinions. Indeed, each has her own individuality, not to say eccentricity, pretty strongly developed, nothing is so easy has spitting retaliation; but, somehow, good will reigns among them to a considerable degree. The Catford kitties have their occasional little quarrel, spirited out in a few sibilant hisses; just enough to prevent the tenor of their lives from becoming too flat.

Their fur, it sparkles.