Les chats froids de France

Last week, in good ol' Lot 47, I got to hang with some pretty cool cats. There was Mouse Killin' Wilber who'd lost his shades a while back but still looked cool, sitting outside his house, protectin' his turf, an' squintin' in the heat o'th'sun:



And then there was he good pal Portland, who liked nothin' better than to sit on the dirt in the cool an' watch the world just going on by its daily business:



But somethin' was happenin' to the cats of Lot 47. Everywhere, in the towns and the to-or-ist shops, there were all manner cats to be had for a pocketful of Euros: bag cats, shelf cats, brooch cats, wooden cats, fireplace cats, cement cats even - you name it, these lads were sellerin' it. "Strange," I thinks to myself, "Ain't it strange that all these cats should look kind of spooky..."













And as I puzzled this to myself, something in my mind reminded me of back home. Yup, once I saw the connection, there was none gettin' away from it: these cats were catnip-stoned...