“I didn’t know there were any cats on Broadway,” I said.
“There aren’t many,” she replied. “I come from Sixth Avenue,” and she gave a backward tilt to her head.
I sat and panted, and she went on bitterly, “You dogs don’t know what life is for us cats. You are led out for exercise, and you get it, even if your head is in a muzzle. They take you to the parks. If we crawl out, we can’t get beyond the curbstone. Just think of life without the touch of earth and grass to your paws. Everything paved and stony. I wish I was dead.”
“Some cats go on the roofs,” I said. “I’ve seen them.”
“A roof is glary and there’s no earth there,” she said, “and no one to play with. Cats shouldn’t be allowed in big cities. Look at my face—all broke out with mange.”
“Do you get enough to eat?” I enquired.
“Too much,” she said gloomily. “I belong to an eating-house. I’m supposed to catch mice, but I don’t. I just dream.”
“What do you dream about?” I asked.
Her face grew quite handsome. “I dream of a little cottage with a garden and a kind old woman.”
“Are you a stolen cat?” I asked.