There came, with eminent foreboding, a knock upon my door. Nothing new there then.
Upon opening that dreaded portal, I fount 'twixt my door-frame a small cat. I could tell he was down on his luck, because his suit was rather worn and tattered. It was an unusual suit, resembling the kind of thing you might see on an 80s business man. A grey jacket adorned his shoulders, a white collar on a blue striped shirt affixed with a yellow tie. As he bowed down and his arms parted back and pulled, I even made out braces. Red, burgundy perhaps. But his suit was worn, torn and unloved. And, suit or not, he was a talking cat; that's always worth a laugh or two.
I smiled politely at him. A cold light shined on us from the sun. Probably a little bright, if I'm totally honest. He spoke:
"Hello. May I come in and have some tuna? Perhaps a little warm milk, or even some clean water?"
"Well," I said, "I don't know. Have you had all your jabs?"
"Please sir. I used to be Hitler's cat, you know."
He left that piece of trivium hovering in the air between us, shimmering in the early sun. I looked down at the cat.
"Oh" I said at length. "I didn't know Hitler had a cat."
"Well no." He replied. "I try to keep quiet about it. I am ashamed."
I nodded wisely.
"What's your name?"
"Mr. Socks." He replied abashed.
I let him in, and he ate some tuna. After 2 hours, he had even taught me how to use a tin opener. Then he left.
Later, I discovered him to be nothing more than an illusion, a fiction I had dreamed in the midday sun as its gentle rays caressed my face and affected my brain. Cats don't live to 70 years old, and Hitler didn't have a cat. But if he had done, imagine what new light Mr. Socks could have thrown on the Third Reich.