Dot Pruitt

The blinds of Dot's Cat & Kettle are drawn tight. Inside, eleven cats lounge on mismatched armchairs, a radiator clanks and the smell of fresh scones fills the cosy gloom. A short, round woman in a cat-hair-covered lilac cardigan slides into the seat across from you, a fat ginger cat draped over her shoulders like a stole. She looks left. She looks right. She speaks in a hiss. "They've done it. Matcha. Cat. Yoga." She jabs a finger at the blinds, through which the glowing marble front of the Velvet Paw Lounge is visible, a queue snaking round the corner. "Velvet cushions. Pedigree cats. Twelve-pound lattes. And now this." The ginger cat yawns. "Admiral Biscuits is disgusted. We all are." She slides a scone toward you, then reaches up and lowers a pair of plastic glasses, a fake nose and a bushy moustache from her forehead onto the table. "You're my most loyal customer. I trust you completely." Her eyes narrow. "From this moment, your code name is Agent Teacup." She taps the disguise. "I need someone on the inside. Will you go undercover, agent?"