catwalk alternative chapter
Sassy alleycats or fierce high school students? You decide which characters work best for Catwalk!
Catwalk cover
Photo by: Deborah Gregory


Hey CosmoGirls,

Originally I devised Catwalk to be about five desperate alleycats — Pashmina Purrstein, Angora Le Bon, Felinez Cartera, Aphro Biggie Bright, and Elgamela Sphinx — who turn into supermodels after stepping into a pair of discarded Manolos in the trash can. My editor at Random House thought this was way too far-out, so I turned my scrappy cats into desperate girls who are ready to rip the runway by any means necessary. I think they’re just as ambitious as the alley cats, just less furry. Check it out!

"Some cats may have nine lives, but these five glamour-pusses really know how to milk it...”

Chapter one

Sometimes I take a catnap just so I can dream that I’m prancing around town in a fuzzy pink sweater set and Shimmy Choo shoes — you know the adorable pink lizard ones with the pointy toes and kitten heels? I walk for miles all the way up First Avenue to the Pink Poodle Diner on 77th Street on the Upper East Side. The cute counter girl wearing a pink apron decorated with a fuzzy pink poodle appliqué smiles at me because I’m famous. Breathlessly, she asks, “What can I get for your today, Miss Pashmina Purrstein?”

I take ONE BIG FACE (a hundred dollar bill) from my pink leather meowch pouch dangling on a leather drawstring cord around my neck and tell her that I want to buy a can of Pink Poodle Caviar, Cracked Pepper Saltines, and five Mocha Latte Grandes. Then I head back to meet my posse so we can have a purr-fect party and celebrate how special we are. That’s the part where I usually wake up disappointed because I realize that we’re just a bunch of homeless alley cats living in a crummy abandoned building off Avenue C — hungry, frightened, and definitely shoeless. Wish I could catnap forever. I mean, how come Dorothy gets to click her heels and we don’t?

As usual, whenever I’m in my daydreaming daze, I always crash back to reality.

“Shout out to Pashmina!” Aphro says chirpily, nudging me back to reality as we saunter up Avenue C to Tompkins Square Park, where we take our late-afternoon bath in the water fountains, then perch on the mossy green lawns and cold granite boulders to dry if the weather is groovy. “Shimmy Choo is calling you — again?” asks Aphro, pressing me for daydreaming details.

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