Now cats, I continued--(at the thrilling word Quilp became tense with
excitement), cats are another affair. Personally I don't care two pence if
Mr. McKenna taxes them a guinea a whisker. There is only one moment in the
life of a cat that is tolerable, and that is when it is not a cat but a
kitten. Who was the Frenchman who said that women ought to be born at
seventeen and die at thirty? Cats ought to die when they cease to be
kittens and become cats.

Cats, said my friend coldly, are the spiritual superiors of dogs. The dog
is a flunkey, a serf, an underling, a creature that is eternally watching
its master. Look at Quilp at this moment. What a spectacle of servility.
You don't see cats making themselves the slaves of men. They like to be
stroked, but they have no affection for the hand that strokes them. They
are not parasites, but independent souls, going their own way, living their
own lives, indifferent to applause, calling no man master. That is why the
French consider them so superior to dogs.

I do not care what the French think, I said with warmth.

But they are our Allies, said my friend severely. The Germans, on the other
hand, prefer dogs. I hope you are not a pro-German.

On the cat-and-dog issue I am, and I don't care who knows it, I said
recklessly. And I hate these attempts to drag in prejudice. Moreover, I
would beg you to observe that it was a great Frenchman, none other than
Pascal, who paid the highest of all tributes to the dog. "The more I see of
men," he said, "the better I like dogs." I challenge you to produce from
any French source such an encomium on the cat.

No, I continued, the dog is a generous, warmhearted, chivalrous fellow, who