I love Pete.
He looked at Mr. North and at Mullins and made a small sound, neither quite a mew nor quite a purr. Then he walked over to the coffee-table and put his forepaws on it, so he could examine its top. His nose quivered with the intensity of his examination and then he looked around at Mrs. North and said, rather indignantly, “Miaow.”
“No little fishes, Pete,” Mrs. North said.
“He thinks there ought to be little fishes because we’re drinking,” Mrs. North explained to Weigand. “We have canapes with cocktails and sometimes there is fish on them. So whenever he sees us drinking he looks for fish.”
Pete got down, looked around reproachfully and went to sit with his back to everyone. He swished his tail at them.