Contribution to Neil Gaiman story

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It wasn’t just the murder, he decided. Everything else seemed to have conspired to ruin his day as well. Even the cat. She knew she was not to talk to strangers. Yet, there she sat, purring full throttle, in the lap of a young woman he’d never laid eyes on before. Both cat and intruder raised their heads as he stood staring at them from the open doorway. “Dammit, Sophie. What kind of watchdog are you!” he growled at the tabby. To the twenty-something cat petter he snarled, ‘Who the hell are you?” To add insult to injury, they were comfortably ensconced in his favorite easy chair and continued to adore each other despite his entry. His irritation at this unwelcome ending to a horrible day threatened to collapse the last few shreds of his control. “Hello, Papa,” she said, in an American accent. “Or do you prefer Dad?”