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When dinner time came, the kitten was still in the house. treacherously lapping up cream out of Piccasso's own plate, the one that had his own and truly name on it.

Picasso saw the vandalism, and spat. Only that made him feel worse. Try it yourself and see why! Hatred does not make for comfort. Outraged, his hair bristling stiff on his back, he once more dashed out into the black and unyielding night. Nothing had prepared him for the emergency, and on an empty stomach besides.

After the old man had gone to bed, the old lady picked up the kitten from the back porch, where grudgingly he had finally consented it could spend just one night, and on tip toes she carried the kitten to her room. Where, without hesitation, it immediately climbed on to her bed, and there peacefully slept all night without moving, right under her chin, where it was soft and warm.

[[Image: woman sleeping with kitten on chest]]

Of course, the little kitten was never given away. The old lady though good natured was very determined. From the moment she held the little kitten in her arms, she knew that she would never part with it.

As the days passed, Picasso continued his airs of a prima dona. He spat, beautifully, each time he saw the kitten. He ignored the old couple, except when they gave him something to eat. Only at those moments, in spite of himself, did he make a pretense of love to them, [[strikethrough]] thing [[/strikethrough]] ^[[twining]] and