He saunters down his own backyard, springs to the top of the fence
with one easy bound, drops lightly down on the other side,
trots across the right-of-way to a vacant allotment, and skips to the roof
of an empty shed. As he goes, he throws off the effeminacy
of civilisation; his gait becomes lithe and pantherlike;
he looks quickly and keenly from side to side, and moves noiselessly,
for he has so many enemies -- dogs, cabmen with whips,
and small boys with stones.

Arrived on the top of the shed, the cat arches his back, rakes his claws
once or twice through the soft bark of the old roof, wheels round
and stretches himself a few times; just to see that every muscle
is in full working order; then, dropping his head nearly to his paws,
he sends across a league of backyards his call to his kindred --
a call to love, or war, or sport.

Before long they come, gliding, graceful shadows, approaching circuitously,
and halting occasionally to reconnoitre -- tortoiseshell, tabby, and black,
all domestic cats, but all transformed for the nonce
into their natural state. No longer are they the hypocritical,
meek creatures who an hour ago were cadging for fish and milk.
They are now ruffling, swaggering blades with a Gascon sense of dignity.
Their fights are grim and determined, and a cat will be clawed to ribbons
before he will yield.

Even young lady cats have this inestimable superiority over human beings,
that they can work off jealousy, hatred, and malice in a sprawling,
yelling combat on a flat roof. All cats fight, and all keep themselves
more or less in training while they are young. Your cat may be
the acknowledged lightweight champion of his district --