From the plush comfort of his penthouse office he smiled sinisterly as he watched the streams of worker-hounds pouring through his factory gate, like unwitting mackerel into a giant, steel net. Yet as he preened his silver whiskers and sipped his sour creme de menthe, a chill would often run its fingernail up his tailored back. For A.K. Ruddegan knew better than any Cat that the docile, blue-collar working hounds who populated his factories and toiled amid the heat and thundering machinery, were indispensable!
