Duchess of Yowl: Thumbs! Summon my palanquin, I'm heading out.
Me: Your grace, it's rather cold out, are you sure you want to be gamboling about the streets of New York?
DoY: I'm needed to grace the top of the Christmas tree.
Me (suspiciously): What Christmas tree?
DoY: The tree they brought in just for me. I saw it on the news.
Me: Your grace, I thought you confined your tv viewing to Animal Planet and America's Most Wanted?
DoY: You put the remote on the side table out of my reach. I couldn't help it.
Me: So, where is this tree?
DoY: The center of town of course, the only place suitable for me.
Me (feeling clever): What address are you giving the palanquin bearers?
DoY: Down Broadway, left on 50th.
Me: Oh my god, you're going to Rockefeller Center.
DoY: I prefer to think of it as the location of my tree.
Me: It's 94 feet tall! You'll need an oxygen mask!
DoY: Clawless commoner. I am high-born royalty. Rarefied air is my preferred O2 level.
Me: And you're planning on being the star on top of the tree?
DoY: Of course. Who else would even be remotely qualified?
Me: So, you have an invitation to do this?
DoY: It was lost in the mail.
Me: Was the address Duchess of Yowl, up Broadway, left on 70th?
DoY: Aha! You did get it!