As cat-loving New Yorker readers know, George Booth probably was a cat in some former incarnation. No mere cartoonist could so effortlessly plumb the scruffy solipsistic depths at the heart of the beast. But then he's pretty uncanny on dogs too--and naked light bulbs and cavemen and shambling children and murderous-looking philodendrons and hatchet-faced little old ladies. A bargain at any price.