He pads into the room with the litigation of whiskers, tail a gavel, paws soft as velvet arguments.
Montgomery Slyde, Esq.— tabby of dubious repute, self‑appointed magistrate of windowsills and warm laptops.
His medals are claw‑marks on the armchair, his IOUs a trail of fur left on black coats.
He struts the tavern alley, trading bottle caps for sardines, boasting of battles against pigeons and shadows.
And when the night closes in, he tips his hat— which is only an ear twitch— before curling into himself, a trickster curled in stripes, dreaming of the next trial by moonlight.
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