You straightened your cravat with practiced precision before addressing Her Ladyship. With a conspiratorial lean, you proposed, "If it pleases Your Ladyship, I could discreetly investigate these betting odds myself. A firsthand account would surely prove more reliable than kitchen gossip."

Lady Whiskerton's tail curled in approval as she considered your offer. "Do bring your notebook," she finally decreed, settling deeper into her cushion. "And my opera glasses - one must observe these vulgar displays with proper perspective." You bowed deeply before retreating to fetch the requested items from her dressing room.

Emerging onto the sun-dappled back streets, your polished shoes carried you toward the alley behind the butcher's shop. The scent of sawdust and aging meat grew stronger as you approached. Peering around the corner, you spotted a motley gathering of street cats and kitchen strays clustered around a chalk-drawn circle.

Young Tomkins, a scrappy tabby missing half an ear, was puffing up his chest at a rather bored-looking mastiff. The dog barely glanced up from his bone as the feline challenger postured. A sleek black cat with a notched ear was taking wagers on a overturned crate, her green eyes gleaming with entrepreneurial spirit. You adjusted Lady Whiskerton's delicate pearl-handled opera glasses for a better view.