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Home: The Toast

Oh, my team, there is a reason and that right good for why I cancelled all my appointments yesterday and peered out of my windows like Mrs. straight up Danvers. A wee and eensy cat, so little its precise position is governed by the quantum uncertainty principle, wandered onto my back deck the morning last and started chirruping at me like some sort of chirruping machine. Friends! What am I to do? He is so wee!

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How could he possibly earn a living? This cat is still in short pants, in cat terms. He somehow managed to make friends with my Current Cat, who is not in the habit of making friends with other beasts, so I called and cancelled my car repair appointment because I had to watch them through the window for a few hours.

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What am I to do? How can a cat so small he cannot be measured by modern science be allowed to wander from my yard without being looked after? I fear for his safety, as there are foxes and wizards who change boys into donkeys that would lure him to Pleasure Island and make him go to work for J. Worthington Foulfellow. He’s got to be poked at by a veterinarian, and possibly held a great deal by myself, right?

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OH AND WHATLY HO-INGTON, HERE’S THE LITTLE SIR LEAPING FROM A BUSHEL OF MORNING GLORIES.

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Help me lure this kitten into my safe and kindly clutches, friends! He scamples offway when I so much as poke my head out the door. Give me your wisdom!

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