[ Little, to the Cat, doesn't even come close to any word that could be used to describe a cat's size. Little is for mice, and rodents, and things that scurry about unseen because people would rather pretend they don't exist. Cats aren't like that; if it wasn't for the strange subset of humans that find them untrustworthy for whatever reason, cats would be almost universally well liked.

But Charles has a point. Being this size does make it sufficiently easier to get himself into trouble, and is even a pretty stellar way to get himself back out of it again, too. And perhaps it's that thought that inspires him to narrow his golden eyes as he turns around with soggy little paws to study the ghost crouched nearby, on his level in what the Cat assumes Charles thought would be a placating way... but which the Cat only sees as an opportunity.

He lunges forward, pouncing at the form of the ghost until he's hooked claws into his coat and is anchoring himself up onto his shoulders, sitting proudly as though he were made to sit there. ]

I spend enough time already watching your pretty little mouth, I don't need any more encouragement.

[ And it's true. Of all Charles' most attractive features, that stupidly charming smile is is most enticing, and the one the Cat can summon with perfect clarity in his mind despite the limited number of times he's seen it directed his way. ]

Now, come on — the cannery is just down the beach once you hit the docks. You can get us both there, as penance for your insolence to a King.