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Knights and Nice Guys
She whistled.
Then she sort of catcalled (which didn't sound like anything at all a cat would respond to, though you mightn't think that terribly surprising, seeing as how cats are generally genetically disposed towards not responding to much of anything, apart from either brute force (and that response is generally the response in accordance with most major physical laws, up to and including the one where things pushed or thwacked with great force tend to move very rapidly in the opposite direction with some sort of measurable proportion between the magnitude of the force and the magnitude of the object being thwacked and/or pushed, which, in the case of a cat, is generally quite small, in the latter field) or something else that resembles a sort of random number generator/magic eight ball of decision making things which hasn't been sufficiently explained by any reliable authority, to be honest with you, even if you were familiar with catcalls, yourself (those either being the ones cats make or the attempts to get cats to respond to some sort of vocal, well, call, I suppose you'd call it) you wouldn't really consider what she was doing a catcall. Which is the reason for the 'sort of' modifying the action of catcalling she was doing. Some people might have said it sounded a little bit more like a cat dying, and not quietly. A cat dying and definitely in the mood to let people know it wasn't entirely happy with the situation and would like a refund. Or a duck. A sick duck (as in ill, not one with strange thoughts and/or behaviours). One that sort of chirruped like it had had too much to drink and was now unable to stop hiccuping, despite asking around and trying to get friends to scare the hiccups out, unsuccessfully (the scaring was unsuccessful, the duck, the hypothetical duck, I might add, wasn't asking for people to try and unsuccessfully scare them, that wouldn't make very much sense now, would it?). She didn't sound right, is what we're trying to say here, I guess.). A pigeon looked at her askance, which is the only time pigeons really look interesting, if you think about it, because otherwise they just sort of peck around and coo and flap about in your face, which isn't interesting in the least, unless you're into that sort of thing, and if you are you're probably not able to read, and thus haven't gotten this far, so we'll just leave off addressing you altogether.
It was to this the knight (ah, a connection to the title!) responded. Which was odd. Ish, anyway. As he was a knight, not a cat. As you might have derived from the word we used to describe him. 'Knight', instead of 'cat'. In case you weren't following along.
The knight strode manfully across the bridge, kicking a cat as he went. He hated cats.
Or, rather, he appeared to hate cats as a part of the manful appearance, but deep inside he probably just really didn't like them.
An albino pigeon squelped in the night. A night with nice skies.
disclaimer:
There are some times, there will be some times, didn't I tell you?
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. You fiendish little turnip, you.