Which is why I love him. He’s anarchy, he’s Pan roaming the hills, he’s Punch throwing out the baby and the bath water, with the style of a street performer and the precision a Bolshoi dancer. As Louis Menand has it, “The cat is a bricoleur. He has no system—or, rather, his system is to have no system.” (Menand also notes that, as a child, his “own identification. . .was entirely with the fish.” Discuss.)
The Cat was one of my first loves between the covers of a book and he always will be.
And of course the fish is right, he shouldn’t be here when your mother is out. But you’re going to let him in anyway, aren’t you?