Cagney and Lacey—my half-Siamese cats—were sitting in the kitchen window when we pulled into the driveway. They looked at us disapprovingly as we got out of the car. “You’d think dating a King of Cats would get them to cut me a little slack,” I said. Quentin snorted. “Are you kidding? The cats probably think you’re a social climber.” “Something like that,” said Tybalt. “I hate you both,” I said, walking to the back door.
