I wouldn't sail this ship if I were you
Grey cats, black cats, scabbed-up soppy tomcats, cats like fluff with eyes; those who sleep upside-down; cats who hate the rain and want you to stop it; cats who sleep all day and dance all night, who wriggle under duvets, who lick your armpits, cats who leap for toys, who lovingly bring you dead things, who sit by webcams licking their bottoms; cats who stare odd-eyed from circular windows; cats who once a year choose to shit in the bath, who triumphantly bring home half a pork pie, cats who mew at night and paw your face at 5am; cats who wriggle and twitch at the sight of a pigeon through glass; cats who walk up and down the piano, who cannot pass a box without going in; tortoiseshell cats; tiny neat cats, affectionate on their own terms; cats who spread out in the sun like furry puddles, who twist and roll in the dust; cats who belong to and are fed by a whole street; cats who dash up trees and awkwardly inch down, who sleep on your neck; cats seen like a shadow from a moving window; cats who awkwardly lick each other, who sit on chairs and bat underneath, who tolerate toddlers for the sake of training up the next generation; tiny kittens half-way up the curtains; cats who need your warmth on a winter night.
