walks alone.

"Polly, the enemy, was the best mouser of all: quite the best business
cat we ever had, with an astonishing intellect and a shrewd way of
gaining her ends. She caught birds and mice as if she foraged for our
whole family: she had an air of responsibility and a certain impatience
of interruption and interference such as I have never seen in any other
cat, and a scornful way of sitting before a person with fierce eyes and
a quick, ominous twitching of her tail. She seemed to be measuring one's
incompetence as a mouse-catcher in these moments, or to be saying to
herself, 'What a clumsy, stupid person; how little she knows, and how I
should like to scratch her and hear her squeak.' I sometimes felt as if
I were a larger sort of helpless mouse in these moments, but sometimes
Polly would be more friendly, and even jump into our laps, when it was a
pleasure to pat her hard little head with its exquisitely soft, dark
tortoise-shell fur. No matter if she almost always turned and caught the
caressing hand with teeth and claws, when she was tired of its touch,
you would always be ready to pat her next time; there was such a
fascination about her that any attention on her part gave a thrill of
pride and pleasure. Every guest and stranger admired her and tried to
win her favor: while we of the household hid our wounds and delighted in
her cleverness and beauty.

"Polly was but a small cat to have a mind. She looked quite round and
kittenish as she sat before the fire in a rare moment of leisure, with
her black paws tucked under her white breast and her sleek back looking
as if it caught flickers of firelight in some yellow streaks among the
shiny black fur. But when she walked abroad she stretched out long and
thin like a little tiger, and held her head high to look over the grass
as if she were threading the jungle. She lashed her tail to and fro, and