My cat, Zoe, only likes me in my underwear. She won’t give me the time of day unless I’m sporting tighty-whities. Like a trip to the zoo for humans, she’ll watch me from about five feet away, clearly within reach of an exit should something horrible happen. I might notice her noticing me, and start talking to her in that soft “kitty kitty voice.” Or, heaven forbid, reach out to pick her up.
If the boundaries are respected, and I don’t break the trust, she’ll just sit there. Watching. Waiting. Fascinated by God knows what. Hand her a clipboard and white coat and she might as well be a scientist in some lab. She must have a theory or two about white guys in white undies. Working something out. A bit puzzled maybe.
The jeans come on, one leg at a time, and that’s her cue to leave.
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