Chapter 9

“Folks,” he declared, “this is the first time I’ve felt right since we got out of this old bottle. Why, I feel so good a cat could walk up to me and scratch me right in the eye, and I wouldn’t even scratch back. Yowp! I’m a wild Siberian catamount, and this is my night to howl. Whee-ee-yerow!” Dorothy laughed, a gay, lilting carol. “Haven’t I always told you he had cat blood in him, Peggy? Just like all tomcats, every once in a while he has to stretch his claws and yowl. But go ahead, Dickie, I like it—this is the …