Let’s not mince words. Anyone who has a cat knows what I mean: I am owned by cats.
There might as well be a little speech bubble that says “mine.”
I’ve been owned by many cats over the years, but I’ve only ever had one James Bond Villain cat. She’s a lovely Russian Blue, but the word that describes her: feline. She is the epitome of all things cat. Tigers, lions cheetahs, they have nothing on my cat Puck.
This is probably the best picture of her:
Pathetic, I know. See, she’s careful of cameras lest they give away her true identity, but I’ve grown cunning, and managed to snap a few good pictures of her (even one of her letting my 2-year old ride her, but don’t let the Evil League of Evil know that, I’m sure they’re processing her application as I type).
Whenever Puck sits next to me on the couch I’m one monocle away from being a James Bond Villain—well, minus the money and the great evil plot to destroy the world—and somehow, Puck knows when I’m working on the bad guys in my stories. I’ve been plotting away all afternoon thinking about my villain, and who came to sit next to me: Villain Cat.
And now I'm feeling properly evil...