We all start somewhere. I started as a black & white bit of fluff in the giant grass hedge. My mother did enough to bring me up in the world, then vanished. I began to seek my own place in an unfriendly universe of dogs, hawks, cars, and fellow seekers of the good life.

The good life. Someone to call my own, a dish that never emptied, a warm spot in the sun or a cool spot in the shade; shelter from the winter rains and frost; love.

Love came late to me. The competition was fierce, as I became, too. This spot taken, that dish claimed, these people indifferent, no options open. Teeth and claws, cunning and charm, winning over the grand prize, claiming it as mine--yet having to share--an unending agony.

The French are different. Cool. Aloof. Independent. Jaded. Beyond worldly. The cat-est of beings. The rest of us can only aspire.

We owe them. Take paté. From Friskies to Fancy Feast, the world celebrates paté. And the world also celebrates Henrí. As it should.

Our Philosopher King. He is modest above all. His words, though, are best seen in context. I bring you: Henrí

- Teeth and claws, cunning and charm