When a single cat let loose a war cry, it was an unsettling sound. When two cats suddenly wailed at each other in a similar fashion, it was downright unnerving.When hundreds of them caterwauled at the same time, in a single voice, the sound alone was enough to make one feel as if the skin had been peeled from one's muscle and bone, to call up horrors inherited from ancestors long since dead and forgotten, raw terror before a deadly predator.

Handy, humans, Rowl thought. Clumsy, slow, and not always terribly bright, but they were very very strong, through sheer, inarguable mass. He now saw his father's wisdom in desiring to keep a few of them around the home tunnels. They could manage annoying problems that might prove awkward and time-consuming for cats.

Being called "dangerous" by a cat could mean a great many things, but it was generally delivered as something of a compliment.

He had to give humans credit where it was due - they did seem to have a knack for building interesting places for cats to explore.

It was why no sane cat allowed kits to come anywhere near human beings. Humans seemed to feel that it was perfectly acceptable to teach kits to accept food from their hands as a matter of course, rather than teaching them the importance of hunting skill and self-reliance.

Rowl felt sure that Bridget's fragile feelings would be crushed if he denied her the pleasure of sharing her meat with him.

He is a cat, Miss Lancaster. Asking him such questions is an exercise in futility.

Littlemouse was in danger, doubtless a prisoner, and the humans could not be trusted to handle her rescue with appropriate violence. They might be willing to leave someone alive, and Rowl was not prepared to tolerate incompetence where his personal human was concerned. He had just gotten her properly trained.

...after a pointless delay for the humans to collect all their toys and keepsakes, he was able to take his rightful place in Littlemouse's arms and heard them all in the proper direction.