From the back of his little basket, where he had formed a fortress,
garrisoned by Wasp himself, and provisioned with bones, boots, and
slippers enough to stand a siege of any length of time, he used to be
always making raids and forays on something. Even at this early age the
whole aim of his existence seemed to be doing mischief. If he wasn't
tearing Annie's Sunday boots, it was because he was dissecting the
footstool; footstool failing, it was the cat. The poor cat hadn't a
dog's life with him. He didn't mind pussy's claws a bit; he had a way
of his own of backing stern on to her which defied her and saved his
eyes. When close up he would seize her by the paw, and shake it till
she screamed with pain.