His cat is brown

His cat is brown. Warm rich brown like as the sleekest of mud. Fishface called it. Inverted Commas! Cooing and petting him. How could he have a cat that is not extraordinary. Light as a feather, Inverted Commas climbs up onto the old man’s shoulder, and further, up unto his head. There it curls into a ball, Fisface’s hat. Two twin-tufted ears twitching.