A few moments later, the screen filled with an electronic version of a newspaper. Again, Sophocles felt light-headed. He was having trouble breathing, and he instinctively popped his claws, trying to sink them into the smooth glass surface of the table for stability.

“I want to show you something,” Mr. Snuggles said, unaware of Sophocles’ condition.

A few more paw motions and the screen changed to show an old diner. Standing in front of it was a mob of people holding signs painted with slogans, like “Save Our History!” and “Keep Our City Alive!”

“I read this article,” Sophocles said. “October 23rd, 2007. Activists Save Local Diner.”

“Exactly. A bunch of those Save Our City people, the same ones who made the stink last year about the “homogenization of our cities.” They went crazy when they found out the place was going to close and a fast food joint would take the spot. The place has crappy food and is about as clean as a sewer grate, but people saved it because it represents a part of our world that is fading away.”

Sophocles began to understand, but he shook his head.

“This isn’t the same. No one is taking over the newsstand. We’re just running out of money. Protesters won’t help.”

“We don’t need protesters. We just need to convince people that they’re about to lose something important to the city. How long has Ehgleman’s been open?”

“It was established in 1946. Mr. Ehgleman had just returned from the war and…”

“Right, right. I remember the story. And in that time, how often have you remodeled?”

“Well, Herbert purchased a new cash register when he took over the shop in ’65. Oh, and we replaced that light fixture, the one that fell when the people living upstairs had that party in ’95.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Sophocles. That newsstand is like a freaking museum. It’s like someone froze it in time. These folks,” Mr. Snuggles said, tapping on the picture of the protesters, “eat this stuff up. And if they find out that you might close, they’ll swarm the place.”

Sophocles thought about this. Something about the plan nagged at him. In some way it didn’t feel quite right, but all the pieces were there. It could work.

“It’s a decent idea,” he conceded. “But how will we let them know? Do you have their phone numbers?”

Mr. Snuggles laughed.

“We don’t need to call them. Remember how I said the internet can connect people together?”

Not waiting for an answer Mr. Snuggles tapped the keyboard a few more times. The screen changed, revealing a page with a series of dated entries titled “Mr. Snugg’s Place.” Sophocles narrowed his eyes and stared at the screen.

“What is it?”

“It’s my blog. We’re going to take Ehgleman’s Newsstand into the blogosphere!”

Sophocles stared at Mr. Snuggles.

“You do realize that I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about,” he said.

Mr. Snuggles sighed. “A blog is sort of like an online diary. You post entries and can talk about anything that interests you.”

“I’m not seeing the point.”

“Other people can read the blog and post their own comments, and if they like what you wrote and have a blog of their own, they can connect their blog to your story.”

“A web of sorts, I see. But why would anyone want to read the ramblings of a rank amateur? No offense, of course.”

“Well, first, they aren’t all amateurs. Authors, politicians, all sorts of people have blogs. What’s more, and I think you’ll be especially interested in this, bloggers have started breaking news stories the major outlets didn’t even know about. With a blog, anyone can be a reporter.”

Sophocles mulled it over. It was like the small press papers they carried on the big circular rack back at Ehgleman’s, the papers published in garages and old warehouses by the members of fringe groups or fans of esoteric topics. Still, Sophocles had his doubts.

“This is all well and good, but how will anyone find what you’ve written? I mean just because you publish an article doesn’t mean anyone will read it.”

“Fortunately, I’ve got that covered,” Mr. Snuggles said.

Again, he tapped away furiously, alternating between the keys and the smooth plastic square. A moment later, a list, of what Sophocles assumed were blogs, appeared on the screen.

“These are the blogs of other cats, all friends of mine.”

“What? You mean there are more cats writing blogs?”

“Oh, yeah, hundreds, thousands maybe. Who knows? On the internet everyone is anonymous. Almost anything you find there could have been created by a cat.”

Sophocles looked at the computer, dumbfounded. He felt as if someone had taken his entire world, turned it inside out, and handed it back to him.

“So all I have to do,” said Mr. Snuggles, “is email the other cats and let them know what I’m trying to accomplish. They’ll link to the story and we’ll start building momentum. We help each other out like this all the time.”

He turned to Sophocles.

“Now what I need from you is help writing this story. If anyone who knows how to write news, Sophocles, it’s you. We’ll save your newsstand yet!”

Sophocles just stared at the screen, taking in the dozens of names in the list.

“I need a computer,” he said.

Over the next few weeks, Mr. Snuggles kept Sophocles posted about the progress on their campaign. It wasn’t necessary. Within a few days of the blogs hitting the web, strange new people started filtering in to the newsstand.

Some were young people with little handheld computers, like the device the man outside the window had used.

“Oh, my god,” they would gasp. “Can you believe this place? This is awesome. It’s like something out of a movie!”

Others were older, hair steely colored, wearing sensible shoes and worn sweaters.

“My father and I used to come to a newsstand just like this when I was a boy,” they’d say. “He’d buy a

Times, some pipe tobacco, and, if I was good, a comic book for me.”

And more than one of them came in with cats held in their arms or in special travel totes they opened when they were inside the door. As their owners explored the store, the cats came over to talk to Sophocles.

“We think it’s really great what you’re doing here,” they told him. “The humans don’t always appreciate their history, so it’s up to us to preserve it.”

Sophocles simply nodded, unsure what to say and unused to so much company after years of living alone in the newsstand with Herbert.

The most important change, however, was that people bought things again: newspapers, cigarettes, maps of the city, penny candy, comic books, magazines. The little bell of the cash register rang over and over, a wonderful music to the swirling dance of life the newsstand had become.

After visiting Ehgleman’s, many people drifted next door to the diner, an old greasy spoon in as much trouble financially as the newsstand had been. The boost in customers helped it as well. At one point, the diner’s owner, an older woman with a long nose who always smelled of bacon grease, came in to talk to Herbert. The two of them marveled at their unexpected success, wondering at what had changed.

Beaming at their good fortune, they laughed and chatted, eventually becoming good friends and spending many of their evenings together. All the while, Sophocles sat comfortably on his cushion in the window, filled with warm feelings. He and Mr. Snuggles had not only saved the newsstand and the diner, but in the process they had brought some extra happiness into Herbert’s and Long Nose Lady’s lives.

At one point, Herbert felt that with some of his profits he ought to remodel. Mr. Snuggles nearly panicked, and he made it very clear to Sophocles that remodeling was out of the question. People didn’t want a shiny new newsstand. They wanted classic urban grime. It took a fair amount of effort, but Sophocles managed to erase messages from the contractor, lose paperwork, and otherwise interfere with the process. Finally, Herbert gave up on the idea as more trouble than it was worth.