Last night while the Misters were watching a movie, the Smitty was laying on his back with all fours up and his front paws he had crossed in the air --
--as though he had frozen still for the moment in the middle of conducting a cat symphony that was happening somewhere between his head and the ceiling light convered by the japanese white paper lantern.
A choir of mewoing?
A mass for the cats whose guts went to make so many violin strings down through the ages?
Is the entire string repertoire anathema to cats? Simply unspeakable?
What does the Smitty feels when I play my Kronos CDs?
Can you tell me?
Why not? Cat gut your tongue?
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