Here’s a random factoid: I like cats. And here’s another: I like red wine.

I doubt you’ve ever been forced to nonstop bang a woman hyped up on the undead voodoo version of Spanish fly, have you?”His chuckle was soft. “Can’t say that I have, Kitten.”“Yeah, well, consider me an original.”This time, when his lips brushed across my skin, it lasted more than a moment.“I always have.

If a cat does something, we call it instinct; if we do the same thing, for the same reason, we call it intelligence.

It was probably my mother's screaming that frightened the cat. It's just a guess. No one knows for sure why a cat fell from a ten-storey building onto my head.

My cat is an ungrateful brat. -Nellie McKay.

The cat is the beautiful devil.

There is nothing more difficult than understanding human mentality. My master's present mental state is very far from clear; is he feeling angry or lighthearted, or simply seeking solace in the scribblings of some dead philosopher? One just can't tell whether he's mocking the world or yearning to be accepted into its frivolous company, whether he is getting furious over some piddling little matter or holding himself aloof from worldly things. Compared to such complexities, cats are truly simple. If we want to eat, we eat; if we want to sleep, we sleep; when we are angry, we are angry utterly; when we cry, we cry with all the desperation of extreme commitment to our grief. Thus we never keep things like diaries. For what would be the point? No doubt human beings like my two-faced master find it necessary to keep diaries in order to display in a darkened room that true character so assiduously hidden from the world. But among cats both our four main occupations (walking, standing, sitting and lying down) and such incidental activities as excreting waste are pursued quite openly. We live our diaries, and consequently have no need to keep a daily record as a means of maintaining our real characters. Had I the time to keep a diary, I'd use that time to better effect; sleeping on the veranda.

Although of course I am aware that it changes colour in a jar. But we know why, surely? The heavier melancholic elements in the blood sink, making the top lighter and the bottom darker.'Not so,' I said firmly. 'Cover the jar, and the colour does not change. And I can find no explanation of how such separation could occur in the lungs. But when it emerges from the lungs - at least, this is the case in cats - it is very much lighter in colour than when it goes in, indicating that some darkness is withdrawn from it.'I must cut up a cat and see for myself. A live cat, was it?'It was for a while.

Colorful characters are the odd shaped pieces that fill the holes in life's puzzle.

#Cats are marvelous creatures - they either adapt to circumstances, or decide to make circumstances adapt to them. Either way - they win.