Another story
Once upon a time there was a cat King called Tim, who was so lovely that words just could not describe his sleek beauty. Everyone in the land came to see the wondrous moggy, and all who laid eyes on him were instantly and permanently smitten. His coat was soft, luxuriant, and warm, and anyone lucky enough to place their ear against Tim's flank would hear the most contented, rumbling, yet vulnerable purring you could ever wish to hear.
Tim was a dignified little cat, spending much of his time sprawled across velvet cushions, attending to the affairs of state. Occasionally he would drop his guard and stretch out so that a patch of his furry white tummy became visible, but for the most part he was the model of propriety - in public at least. However, when the doors to the throne room were shut, and the courtiers and servants departed to their beds, Tim liked nothing better than to chase brightly coloured pieces of string, ping-pong balls, and cloth mice scented with catnip around the room. His lithe feline body would arch and ripple with liberated delight as he leapt in the air, twisting and pawing at some imaginary bird. All Kingly etiquette was abandoned as primordial instincts made his crouching body quiver with coiled tension before pouncing on a recalcitrant ball of wool.
In the morning, however, when the courtiers and pages returned, and opened the heavy drapes that hung all around the walls, the toys would be nowhere to be seen. The scratch marks on the floorboards would have disappeared. And Tim would be lying on his cat bed, curled fast asleep, his nose tucked decorously into the tip of his tail, and his little flank rising and falling with gentle regularity.
Tim was a dignified little cat, spending much of his time sprawled across velvet cushions, attending to the affairs of state. Occasionally he would drop his guard and stretch out so that a patch of his furry white tummy became visible, but for the most part he was the model of propriety - in public at least. However, when the doors to the throne room were shut, and the courtiers and servants departed to their beds, Tim liked nothing better than to chase brightly coloured pieces of string, ping-pong balls, and cloth mice scented with catnip around the room. His lithe feline body would arch and ripple with liberated delight as he leapt in the air, twisting and pawing at some imaginary bird. All Kingly etiquette was abandoned as primordial instincts made his crouching body quiver with coiled tension before pouncing on a recalcitrant ball of wool.
In the morning, however, when the courtiers and pages returned, and opened the heavy drapes that hung all around the walls, the toys would be nowhere to be seen. The scratch marks on the floorboards would have disappeared. And Tim would be lying on his cat bed, curled fast asleep, his nose tucked decorously into the tip of his tail, and his little flank rising and falling with gentle regularity.