Feline Utopia

The cat was nobody’s cat. A stray that wandered the streets, having escaped the clutches of a rather unpleasant human, it had the collar and registration information needed to roam free without being accosted by other people.

It had found an ideal home, as well. The dumpsters behind the fish and chips place were a constant trove of delicious, if somewhat unhealthy, food, and the cat lived like a King in its palace of trash cans. Granted, the winter was a bit cold, but the owner of the fish and chips place had spotted his new neighbour, and in deference to the cat’s services warding off rodents, built it a small home. Nothing much – a few pieces of plywood nailed together – but it was enough to keep the cat warm and sheltered.

Two years later, the own had to build the cat a new home, larger this time, as the cat was having trouble squeezing through the doors. Two years after that, another home, even larger.

The cat, meanwhile, was having difficulty breathing, and moving, as its girth expanded beyond a reasonable state. Its stomach brushed along the ground, in part due to its size and in part due to the inadequate strength of the cat’s legs.

Finally the cat stopped moving; the owner of the fish and chips place was kind enough to place the leftovers right outside the cat’s door anyway, so it could just loll in its cavern (which it was now to big to exit anyway) and lick at the fried chunks to its heart’s content, at least until the mice got to it.

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