Suzanne Normand, novelist—who will write in 1966 “My Stories of cats, four without pedigree”—publishes on May 23, 1931 in Paris-Soir a vibrant praise of the cat entitled, “Les Chats Puissants et Doux ...”:
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... I do not believe that there is anything alive on earth which reaches perfection in grace, in pride, in the eurythmy of movement. [...] The cat, him, gives to the glance the most complete satisfaction. He is perhaps the only one who can move his lines without our regret or dissatisfaction. Because a moving cat is pure beauty. [...] I knew a big cat lover who called them "pocket tigers". [...] Only, if the cat, reduced model of the wild animal, kept from this wild independence, it added to it, paradoxically, the fidelity. He is, according to Kipling's term, the one "who always goes away by himself". But he is also the one who returns to his home, and to his master, with an attachment, and a perseverance in affection, worthy of the canine race. [...] However, the best quality of the cat, its most charming grace, it is perhaps that it is silent. We said, we sang, but we will never say, we will not sing enough, the sweetness of a feline tenderness. Is there any company preferable to this one? I bet that a cat is, on its own, capable of populating the worst solitude: this presence, both tyrannical and discreet; that touch of velvet; this selfishness well understood which requires the best care, the most ingenious attentions; this gentle despotic invasion, which however still respects your dreams, your work, soothes your sadness, by some distraught purring, some tenacious caress ... Is this not the best expression of tenderness? [...] For we are so made, that we cherish nothing more than souls who hide ...”