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Eons ago, in a biology lab, my lab partner and I were preparing to dissect
cats. We knew that of the group of specimen there would be one pregnant
cat. That opportunity, gruesome as it seems, was just too cool to pass
up. So we picked the big black kitty with the obviously swollen abdomen,
named her Mrs. Jones, sang songs to her (Mrs. — Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones,
Mrs. Jones. We got a thiiiing going on…), and proceeded to carve her
up.
We spent seven weeks with that damn cat. Got to know her intimately, you
might say. What was left of her got a little ripe toward the end. But her
revenge was sweet — what we had KNOWN was a belly full of babies turned
out to be layers upon layers of fat. She took twice as long to dissect as
any other cat in the class.
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