Here, kitty, kitty, Chico says. The cover of his cage is still on, making his tiny clown voice slightly muffled. I feel bad for him under there, just waiting to start his evil little day. . . Freud walks toward Chico in his slinky fashion, sits under his cage and just stares. We have satanic pets. . . our pets seem to have made a pact with the devil.
This is what I like about being a designer: You can't really get it until you see it.