From
the Correspondence of
Lady
Farah Guinivere von Einstein Katz and
Caesar
Lancelot Sellars vander Cloar Cat, Esquire.
Translated
from the Meowish. Found on slips of
Parchment
Paper after I'd baked cookies.
Morning at Jones Farm
6 March 2006
Darling,
As I watch you
sleeping, lying there framed in the violet folds of the velvet beauty box, your
saintly repose reflected in the gilt mirror on the old buffet, my heart swells
with rapture. I had almost given up hope
that you would join me here, and now the sound of your impetuous meow in the
morning delights me unfathomably. It
alarms me that I had—it is unthinkable now—almost forgotten the light turn of
your paw when throwing tiny round voles in the air like so many walnuts. Do remember, my love, that they are
inedible. Mousing is, of course, a
barbaric custom, and—as you know—spring mousling, no matter how delicately
prepared, simply does not suit my palate; yet the ferocity in your step as you track
them through the Nandina bushes in the garden quite excites me.
All my love, Caesar
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