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KAT
 
Petites histoires de mort Eons ago, in a biology lab, my lab partner and I were preparing to dissect cats. We knew that of the group of specimen there would be one pregnant cat. That opportunity, gruesome as it seems, was just too cool to pass up. So we picked the big black kitty with the obviously swollen abdomen, named her Mrs. Jones, sang songs to her (Mrs. — Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones. We got a thiiiing going on…), and proceeded to carve her up.
   We spent seven weeks with that damn cat. Got to know her intimately, you might say. What was left of her got a little ripe toward the end. But her revenge was sweet — what we had KNOWN was a belly full of babies turned out to be layers upon layers of fat. She took twice as long to dissect as any other cat in the class.

 
 
 
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