"Aye lad," the large brown cat who stood, yes stood on his two hind legs, at the desk said in an accent was Scottish. Mr. Dithers thought for a moment, why was it that I know what Scottish sounds like? He thought. Humans have always sounded the same, varying only in pitch and the softness of their hands. But suddenly, Mr. Dithers realized, he knew a great deal about the human world he had ruled over for so long. "Yep, yer dead. Buick Oldsmobile, never had a chance. Ya' poor bastard, I thought you catch that damn squirell for sure." The cat said, which he followed with a hoarse laugh that reminded Mr. Dithers of the rumble of spilled cans of catfood.

"Wait, I'm....I'm what?"

"Dead, deceased, expired. Whatev'r werds suit'cha best I'll use 'em, just let me know. I know'tis a shock and all, but you can't run out in front of a car like that and walk away Scot-free. Not even me." The cat laughed again, and Mr. Dithers contemplated for the first time the struggle between the peoples of the British isle while the cat laughed. "I s'pose you'll be wonderin' what exactly 'appens now, eh? The big ball'o'catnip in the sky? The pound, with no visitors but always more dogs if yi've been n'ghty?" The cat lowered his face, and his brows furrowed. "Well laddie, dead cats tell no tales." And Mr. Dithers thought he heard the quake of a thousand thousand naughty cats crying out for relief that would never come. His hairs stood on end, and then Brown laughed again. "I'm just messin' with ya' laddie. You're fine, you made it. Welcome, to Elysium. I'm 'fraid you can't stay long though laddie, you've been called upon to do a work naught but the bravest o' cat-folk have done in all our time since we furst came to this planet a twelve millenia ago."

Mr. Dithers gulped, for he was not very brave. "....w-what?"