I see ol' Harry as a bloodhound, older'n snot, grayer than the moon, and bout as useful as a three legged mule. And loved bout as much if he was blood family. Which he coulda been, 'course. The world is just 'bout strange enough.

And not just five or six, but a passel of cats. Maybe even a cassle of cats. More than you can count on a moonlit night, fewer than you can see when it rains. Don't know where they all come from, but every feedin' there seems to be one or two more.