A long plus a long plus about three more long times a hundred more longs squared to the hippopotamus long time ago, a boy sat all by himself just outside of his family's woodshed, drawing cats. The boy was waiting to be punished, for drawing cats and he knew deep down inside of himself that he probably ought not to be drawing even more cats, but he honestly could not think of a better way to spend his time. He drew happy cats. He drew sad cats. He drew cats that couldn't make up their mind just how they felt. He drew cats that were polka dot, and cats that were striped, and cats that were every single color but cat, colored and a few more colors in between. Yes sir, that boy just loved to draw cats. It was kind of a deep-rooted obsession; I guess you could call it, if you wanted to be all harsh and judgmental about it. A kinder sort of spirit might decide to squint at the boy's actions and call it a passion and in a way, you would be perfectly right to call it either passion or obsession. I don't really know quite when the whole thing started. I am quite sure that he must have been sitting there by himself drawing and scribbling with his crayons on paper making lines and squiggles and boxes and maybe he saw a big old tomcat chasing after a field mouse that had just crawled up from somewhere under or in behind of the woodpile, or maybe he just dreamed the whole thing up, but no matter how it all first started the honest-to-Bible truth of it was that boy just plain loved to draw cats...