Chloe, wake up. I really, really, really need to pee.”I moan and sink deeper into Jorge’s arms, pulling my hand back.“Chloe, wake up. I’m dying here. I have to pee.”Ugh, why won’t that voice go away? I crack my eyes open and see Ringo by the bed prancing around doing the doggy version of a potty dance.Ringo starts prancing toward the bedroom door. “Thank goodness. I’ve got to go.
Walter had never liked cats. They'd seemed to him the sociopaths of the pet world, a species domesticated as an evil necessary for the control of rodents and subsequently fetishized the way unhappy countries fetishize their militaries, saluting the uniforms of killers as cat owners stroke their animals' lovely fur and forgive their claws and fangs. He'd never seen anything in a cat's face but simpering incuriosity and self-interest; you only had to tease one with a mouse-toy to see where it's true heart lay...cats were all about using people
I had a dog once. I thought so much of him that when he died I couldn't bear the thought of getting another in his place. He was a FRIEND—you understand, Mistress Blythe? Matey's only a pal. I'm fond of Matey—all the fonder on account of the spice of devilment that's in him—like there is in all cats. But I LOVED my dog. I always had a sneaking sympathy for Alexander Elliott about HIS dog. There isn't any devil in a good dog. That's why they're more lovable than cats, I reckon.