Half of the feral cats in the overgrown, sparsely graveled alleyway sound like humans. And vice versa.

It leads one to speculate as to whether or not there are cats at all back there. Perhaps the humans have bred small, taken fur coats from the store and cut them up (enough for four make-believe cats each. Easy.)

The tuna cans that I throw out of my window at the setting of the sun must cut their tiny, human tongues. I leave their lids attached and mangled. Blood is a fine seasoning for tuna, I am sure. Perhaps it helps to break down the ocean thrash posing as flesh.

I thought I had my evidence: a diminutive human finger, the size of a hand (had a cat had a hand with soft, pink flesh and useless, soft nails.)

I had forgotten about the hands of human infants.

It was getting late, and I had to find a jar with a tight lid.

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