Yep. Stuart brought home another injured stray. And, of course, like the schmucks they were, Mother and Father Little were more than willing to take them in because they were just a ‘poor little thing off the streets who got all banged up’... or, as those in the know called it, ‘streetwise’.

Eh, but they didn’t give off total ‘I’m here to cause trouble and I’m proud of it’ energy, at least not to the cynically fluffy white Persian housecat that was Snowbell. And they didn’t seem to be associated with Smokey and the others, which was a plus. Sure, he hadn’t seen head nor tail of the boss in years, but you never know in New York – anything can happen.

Case in point.

At least they weren’t eating from his bowl. Nobody ate from his bowl… except Monty. Monty was the exception, if only because he knew he couldn’t stop the stray if he tried. Oy.

For now, though, the feline just… watched them. Watched as Stuart showed them around. Watched as they played with George and Martha. Watched as Mother and Father Little tended to them.

He’d learned not to assume the worst of strangers after Margalo, but… well, he was still a cat; it was in his blood. He couldn’t help it.

Seriously, he tries to bring home one of his friends and they get chased out. Stuart brings back a friend, and they’re treated like a martyr. Make it make sense, folks.

Still, they seemed… innocent enough. They hadn’t picked a fight with him (wise choice) or tried swiping anything from underneath his whiskers (again, wise choice), but there had to be something about them that he just wasn’t getting. Call it feline intuition.

And what better time to finally indulge that intuition than while they chowed down on the meal Mother Little had given them?

“Hey. Newbie. Slow down, will ‘ya? Food’s not goin’ anywhere.” Snowbell quipped, the sardonic drawl of the city in his voice ringing loud and clear as he padded over, eyeing them with an inquisitive glint in his sharp, emerald-eyed gaze. “Listen, you got a second to talk, gato-a-gato? Finish chewin’ first, though, I don’t want’cha ‘ta choke on top of everything else you’ve got goin ‘on. And for god’s sake, keep your mouth closed.”

The cat lowered himself to his rump in front of them, still looking even-laced as ever.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here ‘ta give ‘ya the ol’ ’this is my house’ spiel – I’m not as territorial a housecat as you might think these days – I’m just… curious, ‘ya know?” he reasoned, head tilted a touch. “Like… what’s your story, ‘n all that. Stuart says you were out there in the gutters livin’ in a box, which yeah, ain’t too uncommon with strays, but squalor doesn’t have ‘ta be too bad, not if ‘ya know what you’re doin’ – and I won’t lie to ‘ya, kid, you seem like the kinda fella who knows what you’re doin’. Sorta.”

His ears slightly flattened with a faint grimace. “That said though, you were lookin’ in pretty rough shape when Stuart brought’cha here. I mean, I know it’s probably none’a my business, but as someone who knows these streets in and out, I gotta ask: didja get caught in a turf war or somethin’? Territory check gone wrong? Roughed up by a big mean pack’a dogs? Knew a few folks who got caught up in that.”

A shudder ran down his fluffy white coat. “Yeesh. Not pretty.”

Snowbell shook his head, getting back to the point at hand. “Anyway, look… whatever your deal is, just know that…”

He sighed, unable to believe he was actually about to say this.

But he would.

‘Cause dang it, Stuart had gotten in his head these past three years.

“…you met up with the right mouse, okay? And the right family. These folks, the Littles… they treat critters like us real good. I mean, as long as you’re not pushin’ things off shelves or tracking mud in the house – two of my favorite pastimes, by the way – even still, you’ll… you’ll be looked after here. And yeah, fine, maybe…”

Okay, now this he couldn’t believe he was about to say.

“…maybe you’re alright in my book. Maybe.”

His eyes narrowed pointedly. “Don’t go spreadin’ it around, though. I got a reputation to uphold, got it?”