I just retrieved this book from Chip's room (also known as the cardboard box he claimed last year after my husband and I made a whirlwind NYC-Morgantown-NYC trip to collect some stuff from his childhood home) and would like to know why my cat is creeping around reading purportedly anthropological accounts of pervy sex crimes.
I mean, he's a
cat, for God's sake. As those of us who've read
Saki's
Tobermory know, cats are wise to everything everyone is
doing all the time, what with their skulking around under beds and behind doors and inside closets. So it's not as though Chip needs to study what folks get up to. And much though I love him, there's a reason Chip has a frat-boy name: He isn't exactly what you'd call a feline intellectual. In fact, he's pretty damned dumb... but he knows about
the bishop and the actress.
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