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| "Cute cat, eh?" said the chauffeur, also relieved. The cat was anything but cute. Rather, he weighed in at the opposite end of the scale, his fur was scruffy like an old, threadbare carpet, the tip of his tail was bent at a sixty-degree angle, his teeth were yellowed, his right eye was oozed pus from a wound three years before so that by now he could hardly see. It was doubtful that he could distinguish between a tennis shoe and a potato. The pads of his teeth were shriveled-up corns, his ears were infested with ear lice, and from sheere age he farted at least twenty times a day. He'd been a fine young tom the day my wife found him under a park bench and brought him home, but in the last few years he'd rapidly gone downhill. Like a bowling ball rolling torward the gutter. Also, he didn't have a name. I had no idea wheather not having a name reduced or contributed to the cat's tragedy. (c) H.Murakami - A Wild Sheep Chase P.S. Sūdzība! JR grāmatnīca pilna ar aitām un pat viens kafka atradās, bet tas arī viss - nav neviena nelasītā! Plus, kā tas nākas, ka latviskais tulkojums maksā uz pusi lētāk, kā angliskais?! | |||||
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