You know I like you – unlike the rest of this lot, you've got a good head on your shoulders – but this thing about a panther... Seriously, lad? You've adopted a diddling panther? A few of our men came back to camp with their bums so bitten they'll have to doodoo standing up for weeks, and the very thought of going back on patrol has them shaking so hard their seams burst. This can't go on. Heard you've even gone so daffy as to give it a name. Hobbes the panther? You're completely off your nut, aren't you?
Now concentrate, because I don't feel like repeating this. The lad who brought you this letter is carrying a hefty coin pouch. That's the lion's share (no bleeding pun intended) of the loot from our last job. The pouch is yours, but you take that overgrown kitty somewhere out in the wilderness and slit its throat. Simple enough? For the sum you're getting from me, you'll buy yourself two pure-blooded greyhounds and we can forget the whole thing. That's me being generous. Don't make me change tacks.