The last time I saw Papa was in Key West. He was having a tea party with several cats he'd tied down to the table, dressed up in human clothes. "This is Gerty," he said. The one across from him. A fat, resigned-looking tabby in a beret. It did look like her, I thought.
"Gerty can't have biscuits today," he said. He dipped his finger in his tea and then used it to massage the anus of the kitten cradled in his arms. "She already ate." The kitten moved its bowels. He started to cry. "Gerty ate her children."