They're sending the cat into space. They're sewing a little suit for him, making a little tail hole in the suit. They're going to put a little diaper on him first. They're trimming his little nails so he won't claw the inside of his little capsule during takeoff. They're fitting a little camera on his helmet—there's a little helmet—and they're running tests to make sure the video will come through. See that on the TV? That's pretty much what he's seeing, what little pictures are bouncing around in his little brain. They're pampering him first, massaging the little pink beans of his toes, the little heart-shaped pads. They're running a little comb through his fur and he's purring into little mews, a sort of unfurling of a mew. A little vibration into a mew. Prrrr-ah, like that. He's happy. And he's getting a little salmon filet before blast-off. And a little saucer of milk. And the spacemen are singing him a little song even though they really want to say, I'm glad it's you and not me, I'm not ready, I don't think I'll ever be ready, why did I get into this line of work. And they're strapping him in with a little belt. And they're doing the countdown. And he's doing the little purr-mews, and then one big mew, and then he's up there, and going and going, until he's so so little. And when it doesn't work, we're all thinking, or we're telling the children, our children watching on TV, we're telling them, oh don't worry. He had a little parachute packed up in there. He landed in Hawaii. He's sitting in a little beach chair drinking from a little coconut, a little umbrella poking out of it. He's living his little life.

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