Not gonna lie, this dame had legs — four of ‘em to be precise — with a slender frame covered only by a full-length fur. Why someone would wanna pump two slugs into this lynx’s gut was anybody’s guess. Kitty might’ve had claws, but she was scratchin’ someone with an itchy trigger finger.

Word is, she was a regular around this cat house, a real pussycat on the prowl, if you catch my ball’a yarn. The older broads — the cougars — didn’t much care for the way she’d turn up her tail to every tomcat and alley stray that strutted into the joint. The toms and the strays didn’t much care for it either. Everyone had a motive and it was my job to scoop out this litter box.

So naturally, the proverbial cat had my tongue when, outta the blue, this cadaverous kitten picked herself up, stretched and began seductively licking her wounds. I was catatonic when she slinked over and brushed her whiskers against my ear.

“I’ve got eight more lives,” she purred. “And I plan on living every single one of ‘em.”

I went home and headed straight for the Tennessee rotgut. I never filed a report. No way was I ever letting this particular cat outta the bag.