I’m convinced of it. Randomly slaying innocent rodents. Lazing about like little Caligulas. Viewing the world with thinly concealed contempt. However, I’m also convinced they are pawns of a greater evil. Some super villain concealed in the shadows, twitching their strings like the marionette master that he undoubtedly is. The Illuminati of the cat world. Colonel Sanders, perhaps?
In unrelated news, it is seriously difficult to wear a mini skirt with high heels and not look like a tramp. So says my wife. And Nina Garcia. This is an issue that I have not considered, but something tells me a creative nexus exists between it and the previous paragraph. I just don’t see it yet.
That’s the wonder of fiction writing.