I have two domestic cats. Both of them were stray kittens I found and adopted. The female is auburn tabby and white and the male is a blue point with blue eyes, but is also just a domestic, not siamese or himalayan or anything. They had a litter of kittens a few months ago and one of the kittens has just a small nub for a tail. Obviously, he’s not a manx, b/c he doesn’t have any sort of bloodline or pedigree or anything, but I wondered if it’s possible one of the parents has some traces of the Manx breed in their bloodline. Either way, the female is prego AGAIN (male has his neuter appointment this Friday. Darn my procrastinating.) and I wonder if it’s likely they’ll have any more without tails. The tailless fund (‘Duck Butt’) is the sweetest, most human-attatched cat I’ve ever had. I’d be thrilled to have another one. He’s just adorable.
I’m putting forth a challenge: Only one person even ATTEMPTED to answer this question. The others rudely nagged at me about “oh the cat populace, you’re a cat murderer, blah blah” So is there anyone out there who is willing to simply answer the question? How likely is it that she’ll have another tailless kitten?
Tag Archives: Murderer
What do you think of my story? This is the first chapter.?
Introduction: Its about an immortal murderer stalking the streets of Victorian London.
Here’s the first chapter:
The man in the long auburn trench coat was running without a sound down the silent streets of Victorian London. The raining street was deserted except for the anonymous man and an aristocratic couple walking toward him.
Moments before the nobles looked up at him from their own blueblood affairs the man ducked into an alleyway and did not emerge until they had made a corner.
He continued his journey through the winding, sooty jumble that was England until he at last found on St. James Square the large mineral construction that was the London Store.
He sprinted up the stairs and through the double doors into the airless fire-lit athenaeum and approached the main desk, where a librarian, half asleep, dissolved into the yellow back novel he was reading, was gently drifting into a dream.
The man stepped close to the librarian, close enough to touch him, to wrap his hands around the neck he so sought after to, but he waited. It seemed improper to close him off without a fight, when he had been so elusive an adversary for over five-hundred years.
He coughed a gentle cough, so gentle that a normal man would not have noticed it, but to the librarian’s trained ears it was as loud as a carriage thump, and his squinty eyes snapped open behind his wiry spectacles.
“You,” he said hoarsely, looking up at his disturber. The man’s face was invisible, shadowed by darkness under his wide brimmed hat and tall collar, but the librarian recognized him from the monogram stitched into his trench coat sheath: two dragons, intertwined around a sword. It was the crest of the Mudbrick family.
“James.” he cried, as two cold, gloved hands wrapped themselves around his neck.
“Martin,” nodded James Mudbrick, and with a squeeze he finished the life of a man whom many considered to be immortal.
Can you give me an thought for a title?