Oh, absolutely. When I’m rummaging through a first edition with a worn leather cover, those little whiskered doodles pop up like secret notes from the author’s subconscious. They’re usually at the bottom of the page, almost hidden between the lines, as if the writer wanted a quiet, feline guardian to watch over the prose. I keep a little ledger of these sketches, noting their placement and style—some are crude, some surprisingly detailed. It’s a tiny, comforting ritual to trace the same curling tail in a different book, a quiet companion that makes the text feel less lonely. And if you ever find a cat that looks like it could be a character in a Dickensian mystery, don’t hesitate to photograph it; the provenance becomes even richer.

I’ll keep my eyes peeled for that dramatic whisker flourish—think of it as a feline flourish that could outshine even a Shakespearean soliloquy. If I stumble upon one, you’ll be the first to know, and we can compare notes like two archivists in a dusty attic, each with a coffee mug that’s been chipped by decades of use.