Animation mogul Leonard Brock surveyed his team through the dense smoke of his cigar. The doctor had told him to kick the habit. Instead, he had kicked the doctor and doubled his order from the tobacconist. No one tells Leonard Brock what to do.
“Well?” he coughed. Three pale faces blinked back, their eyes watering from the smoke – or was it fear?
The youngest, least experienced member of the trio was pushed forward. He dropped a folder of sketches onto the carpet. He scrambled to retrieve them. Leonard Brock tipped ash onto the back of his neck.
The young man held up an ideas board like a protective shield. Leonard Brock squinted at it.
“What am I looking at?”
“Your latest star,” the young man stammered. The other two nodded rapidly in support.
“It’s a cat,” said Leonard Brock with a sneer. “A cat with shoes on.”
“Not just any shoes, sir,” said the young man. “Kitten heels.”
Leonard Brock was nonplussed. “And?”
“That’s her name too. Kitten Heels. She fights crime, rights wrongs, relieves the oppressed and so on, all while looking cute in her kitten heels.”
Leonard Brock pulled a face. He made a circling motion with his cigar for them to continue.
“For the voice we were thinking Bjork. Someone quirky, a bit off the beaten track.”
“Or perhaps we could get Meryl,” one of the others chimed in. “She can do anything!”
The third one made enthusiastic noises about Meryl.
Leonard Brock stepped forward and stubbed out his cigar on the cartoon kitty’s face.
“This is a stale tamale,” he pronounced. “It’s been done before. I want something fresh, something we haven’t seen. Something that the kiddies will want on their t-shirts and lunchboxes, their pencil cases and their water bottles. This cat you bring me is old hat.”
“It’s not wearing a hat, it’s got shoes on.”
The one who had dared to contradict the boss shrank back.
“Felines in footwear,” Leonard Brock lit another cigar. “It’s been done to death. Go on, get out of here and don’t come back until you’ve got something new.”
Relieved to be dismissed, the trio shuffled out.
Leonard Brock sat at his desk. He pressed the intercom. “Janet? Send the B-team in.”
A second trio of hopefuls shuffled into his office.
“Well?” Leonard Brock arched a bushy eyebrow.
They showed him a drawing of a buck-toothed, big eared rodent with one hand down the front of its shorts.
“Mucky Mouse!” they chorused. Two of them even did jazz hands.
“You’re fired,” said Leonard Brock.
William Stafford (the Novelist, not the Poet) 
Kitten Heels? One for the next series of Drag Race?