a Griffo of the feline ring!

Just think how much more he gets out of his life than you do out of yours
-- what a hurricane of fighting and lovemaking his life is --
and blush for yourself. You have had one little love-affair,
and never had a good, all-out fight in your life!

And the sport they have, too! As they get older and retire from the ring
they go in for sport more systematically; the suburban backyards,
that are to us but dullness indescribable, are to them hunting-grounds
and trysting-places where they may have more gallant adventure
than ever had King Arthur's knights or Robin Hood's merry men.

Grimalkin decides to kill a canary in a neighbouring verandah.
Consider the fascination of it -- the stealthy reconnaissance
from the top of the fence; the care to avoid waking the house-dog,
the noiseless approach and the hurried dash, and the fierce clawing
at the fluttering bird till its mangled body is dragged through
the bars of the cage; the exultant retreat with the spoil;
the growling over the feast that follows. Not the least entertaining part
of it is the demure satisfaction of arriving home in time for breakfast
and hearing the house-mistress say: "Tom must be sick; he seems to have
no appetite."

It is always levelled as a reproach against cats that they are more fond
of their home than of the people in it. Naturally, the cat doesn't like
to leave his country, the land where all his friends are,
and where he knows every landmark. Exiled in a strange land,
he would have to learn a new geography, to exploit another tribe of dogs,
to fight and make love to an entirely new nation of cats.