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The Cat Who Wore A Dead Bird As A Hat

I like my clothes to feature a face. A dead face.

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The story of Duchess the cat.

Duchess wasn't one for faux mink. Duchess loved to wrap her neck in another's tragedy.

"Nothing keeps my neck more cosy than a thing that was once happy and is now dead"

Duchess was impervious to praise. Many were quick to call her cold, calculating, manipulative, even malevolent. She had no loyal friends or family. Her own brood of squashed face offspring would prattle ruthlessly behind her back as they enjoyed the high-rise cat scratch she had sent for them. Her layabout daughters were constantly swirling a can of tuna as they tottered about the house while her sons snorted catnip behind the rhododendrons. But Duchess didn't mind. She had her mink. And nothing melts away your own problems quite like nuzzling into a mink who most assuredly had it worse off than you.

Of course, Duchess had been a dreamer once. She entertained the idea of joining the ballet to teach her snub-nosed parents that even she could be rebellious. A life on her toes didn't suit her though, so she wandered into a world of luxury. Doing nothing, she soon realized, was her everything. While other breeds chased after mice, Duchess chased smoked salmon with a caviar garnish. Admittedly, she didn't have to chase it at all. Her errand boy that went by "I'm the owner, Stan" would arrange it all for her.

Duchess took much pleasure in eating a dead fish seasoned with its own offspring. It all just felt so posh.

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