The day the Flapatronic was installed I was trimming my hedge, using no doubt what George would describe as an interesting technique, and I watched Dixie approach the new cat flap with his usual pimp-roll kiss-my-sweet-ass walk. He pressed his well-bred shoulder to the door and it opened up like butter, snapping shut behind him with a smug and expensive sounding clunk. Exclusive and personalised for this prince of cats.
     There was nothing new in this as far as Dixie was concerned; it was life as usual. But the effect on the local cats was fascinating. Ripley Givens, foreman of one of the Espinosal outfits, saw her one day, and made up his mind to form a royal matrimonial alliance. Presumptuous? No. In those days in the Nueces country a man was a man. And, after all, the title of cattle king does not presuppose blood royal. Often it only signifies that its owner wears the crown in token of his magnificent qualities in the art of cattle stealing.
     A bedraggled ginger tom and a scabby black and white strolled up and pressed their heads against the flap. Nothing happened. The cats looked baffled. But they persevered, battering at the unyielding door for forty-five minutes before giving up and climbing on to the roof of the shed. They spent the rest of the day watching Dixie hopping in and out of the flap with what seemed to be a new nonchalant skip in his step.