henry the cat
henry was a cat. or at least, he thought he was. he had lots of hair all over his body. it was black and white with some brown patches as well. and he had a tail too. it was stripy. there were whiskers on his face and his ears were on the top of his head, not the side. but you could never really be sure. he didn't really do cat things. he didn't pester a taller person for food, or enjoy playing with ludicrous toys that only an idiot could mistake for a mouse. instead he preferred the finer things in life. he brewed a coffee in the morning, black of course, to go with his french toast. he attended the opera and if you looked at his record collection you would mainly see mahler, apart from the russell watson cd his aunt bought him for christmas. he tended to read the likes of kierkegaard and satre, even though he didn't exactly see eye to eye with their philosophy. that kind of stuff is far too pessimistic. nonetheless, he was undeniably a cat. it was murdering his social life.