"You get used to her," smiled Crocell, patting Crookshanks who’d climbed up onto his lap for attention and in optimistic hopes of being hand-fed some pieces of tuna. He thought it such a clever little gangly young cat – its magical part-Kneazle heritage let it see them all, whereas an ordinary cat wouldn’t be able to. It was rather like its mistress, really. They were a good fit together.