One evening and I sitting here, it was mortal cold, and the cat was curled sleeping and he on the fireflag. The wind was tearing at the thatch, and never a sound was in it if it was not the cry of the wild geese and them crossing the moon. Of a sudden he was on his feet, every hair on him standing stiff as a hackle, his back arched, his tail like a jug-handle. He stood listening. Then, with a hiss and a snarl, he was out of the door like running water. The wind died on the moment, and not one thing stirred bar the clock - the ticks of it would deafen you, like as if you had your ear to an anvil. Then the wind blew again, and a turf-sod shifted in the fire.

The next morning, with me mother and father - may God save them! - in the cart, I was driving to Mass, for it was a Sunday. We got as far as Spooner's below, when I seen something on the road that stopped me. The whole place was one living mass of cats. In the middle was a great buck-cat, lying with his paws drawn up under him, and him looking straight in front as if there was not a living thing near him.

Around him stood others and they never lifting an eye off of him. Some on the fence, and in the ditch lay more, but they were looking away from him. Here and there a small one sneaked from one lot to another, as if they were servants and they looking for orders.

"Go on", says my father, "or we will be late for Mass. They are only choosing their king."

by George A. Little
from "Malachi Horan Remembers"