Animals were rare, in Volisport. There were the goats, of course, but given that you hardly ever saw them detached from a cab, it was hard to think of them as... well... alive.
Edvard hunched down, taking care not to get his shoes wet, and peered into the grate. Whatever was in the gutter (certainly not water) was bound to stain, and also, he'd borrowed them from Barnaby.
A pair of golden eyes peered back at him, accompanied by a trembling "meeev".
"Well," he muttered, "nothing for it. I suppose I'll have to build some sort of mechanical kitten-rescuing man."