What a delight to walk on four soft white paws. He could see his whiskers springing out from the sides of his face, and he felt his tail curling behind him. His tread was light, and his fur was like the most confortable of old woollen jumpers. As his pleasure in being a cat grew, his heart welled, and a tingling sensation deep in his throat become so strong that he could actually hear himself. Peter was purring. He was Peter Cat, and over there was William Boy.
(...)
That night Peter was too restless, too excited, too much of a cat to sleep. Towards ten o'clock he slipped through the cat flap. The freezing night air could not penetrate his thick fur coat. He padded soundlessly towards the garden wall. It towered above him, but one effortless, graceful leap and he was up, surveying his territory. How wonderfull to see into dark corners, to feel every vibration of the night air on his whiskers and to make himself invisible, when at midnight a fox came up the garden path to root amongst the dustbins. All around he was aware of other cats, some local, some from far away, going about their night-time business, travelling their routes.
That night Peter was too restless, too excited, too much of a cat to sleep. Towards ten o'clock he slipped through the cat flap. The freezing night air could not penetrate his thick fur coat. He padded soundlessly towards the garden wall. It towered above him, but one effortless, graceful leap and he was up, surveying his territory. How wonderfull to see into dark corners, to feel every vibration of the night air on his whiskers and to make himself invisible, when at midnight a fox came up the garden path to root amongst the dustbins. All around he was aware of other cats, some local, some from far away, going about their night-time business, travelling their routes.
Ian McEwan, The Daydreamer (1994)
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