Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick
giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried
hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine
tang of faintly scented urine.
Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast
things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle
summer morning everywhere. Made him feel a bit peckish.
The coals were reddening.
Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She didn't like her plate full. Right.
He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat
there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat
walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.
--O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.
The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just
how she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.
Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her
sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent
down to her, his hands on his knees.
--Milk for the pussens, he said.
--Mrkgnao! the cat cried.
They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She
understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never
squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can
--Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never
saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.
Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.
--Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.