Paper dresses were all the rage in 1968. As soon as I trimmed the hem of my instant dress with the kitchen scissors, I slipped into my fashion statement and dashed across the street to show my best friend.

Barbie was impressed with my crinkly A-line dress, but her Siamese cat even more so. Rama, who normally treated me with indifference, was all over my mod apparel. Rama parked herself in my lap and drooled all over me. Then she started licking.

Mom had surprised me. She'd bought us matching psychedelic-print orange dresses at a grocery store, a one-size-fits-all trend costing a dollar each (and you could even get a tablecloth to match). It was considered ultra-modern fashion, very hip, good enough for the likes of star model Twiggy. Mom had handed me my dress-in-a-tube and busied herself putting away the groceries.

Almost from the moment of my arrival at Barbie's house, I could see my pop-art creation showing signs of disintegration. It appeared Rama's claws didn't want to separate from me – ever. As long as she could nibble on my dress, Rama was one happy kitty. Maybe she enjoyed the sound the paper made as she kneaded, but more likely she was amused I was parading around the neighborhood in a gigantic paper towel.

Today it seems terribly frivolous and selfish, the concept of throw-away clothing. Back then, the idea was you wore it once and disposed of it. When I reappeared in my living room, Mom was busy cutting her new dress to the proper length. I stood there, in shreds, no longer a trendy fashion statement.

Q: Every cat's a critic. What's your favorite feline's major gripe?