Meeting a Tsar

I climbed up the stairs, scooting away from the edges so as to be away from the imposing, intimidating paintings hung on the wall. Just as I reached the top, I thought, how lovely to be able to dip my toes into this honey-golden fur rug. And nearly did so. A shriek froze my movement mid-air. I looked up to see a pair of jazz hands in my face, topped by an expression of abject horror.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked.
“I am trying to enjoy the benefits of the rug the lord of the cattle class has laid out in honour of his guests,” I replied.
“That is not a rug !” she shrieked again. “That is his cat!”
“Oh, really?” I looked down and spotted a tail-like extension.
“Yes!”
“But it's not moving.”
“Her lusciously groomed fur hides her breathing movements because the lord and master likes order in his house,” she snarled.
I edged away; between one cat and another, I'd take the one masquerading as a rug.
“Well, I just thought it was a rug,” I said defensively. “And she shouldn't be sleeping where people might think she's a rug you know.”
“She sleeps all the time, all over the house and if the lord and master thinks it's okay, then it's you who ahs to deal with it,” snapped the shrieker. “Now come in, you're already late for the interview.”
“Ah, I'll begin right away,” I said, going round the cat (I'd still insist it was a rug) and following her into a meeting room.
“You'll have to wait,” she ordered. “He's not done with the first reporter.”
“Whaaa---”
“He started late.”

“The reporter or the lord?”
“You can ask your questions inside.”

Sigh.