Felix in the Bone Age

Stone-dust motes swirl round a charcoal-sketched savanna where Felix the cat, sly as mercury, trespasses on a lovelorn Neanderthal tableau. A cave-girl’s lacrimose eyes—two obsidian crescents—lock onto the feline foreigner; her brute lover’s jealousy erupts like a volcano carved in scratchy ink. Felix, tail a semaphore of panic, pirouettes off a precipice, latching onto prehensile vines of simian mercy, each monkey-tail a living bungee cord. Down the cliff’s calligraphic vertigo he glissades, landing amid a diapered baby monkey whose rubber-limbed innocence beguiles him. Yet idyll curdles when a skyscraper-sized silverback barges in, chest-beats thundering like kettledrums, forcing the cat to wage a balletic shadow-boxing duel that ends in a puff of jungle dust and existential bewilderment.