. . . there lived a kitten. Not a nylon, bright neon hole, filled with ragged stuffed mice and cheap plastic bells. Nor a scratchy, dirty, coarsely covered hole, with neither grass nor a scratching post in sight: it was a Tolkien hole, and that means comfort.

I know what my cat-lover of a friend is getting for his birthday.

That is the coolest cat tree I've ever seen.

And I don't even own a cat.