Fast hairy monsters high up on a wall, incognizant of their fortune, being as they are—at least on occasion—and in more than one sense of the word, ascendant, beyond the ken of three prowling, ever-watchful, and even faster (as if that were imaginable, but imagination, I have noticed, often wears the Emperor’s illusory purple), hungry—or so they yowl at me, incessantly—feline beasts known throughout the land, their domain, not just for their sleek and deadly elegance but for torturing, and in turns dismembering, in that horrifying, playful, pure-sociopath way unique (one hopes) to their species—these nimble piliferous octopeds would be glad, if they but had the ganglions for it, that I spy them, at least some of them, first.