"Listen, will you get out of there? I've got work to do!"
"Yes, I think I've hit it at last. It was that four-stress iambic that did it. It was iambic, wasn't it?"
"Go away," I said miserably.
Fuzzy pulled the rest of himself out of the bars and stood on hind feet. He crossed his forepaws in front of him, vibrated his long, furry tail, and said defiantly, "No."
"Look," I pleaded, "I'm not Don Marquis and you're not Archie and I have work to do. Now will you please get out of this typewriter?"
His tiny ears swiveled upward. "Who's Don Marquis? And Archie?"
"Go to hell," I said. I slammed the cover down and looked up into the cold eyes of Oscar Phipps who was standing next to my desk.
"Who, may I ask," he said ominously, "do you think you're talking to?"
"Take a look." I lifted the plate once again. Fuzzy was there on his back, his legs crossed, his tail twitching.
"I don't see anything," Phipps said.