Every bookstore worth its salt has a cat. The bookstore cat, aloof and superior, holds court from atop a favored cushion located somewhere within the shop. The cushion (or throne, as is more likely the case) generally adorns a once-comfy-but-never-fashionable 20th century chair or sofa punctuated by claw marks on both arms. In a pinch, a hard, wooden stool will do. Throughout the day, customers come and go, paying homage to the indifferent feline's magnificence as they browse from room to room. Be forewarned: bookstore cats can be capricious when showered with overt affection. Too much rubbing will almost certainly result in a peremptory hiss or perhaps even a quick nip from sharp, tiny teeth. The bookstore cat is royalty and demands to be treated as such: it has never missed a meal during any of its nine lives but cleverly conceals its generous bulk beneath a lush fur coat that continually scatters behind this majestic creature as it slinks from one place of repo...