“His name is Andrew,” she said, pointing at the fuzzy gray cat that was currently attempting to ignore all of its bones to become one with the sunny spot on the couch.
I tried to suppress the urge to laugh. “You named the cat ‘Andrew’?”
She was not impressed with my name-judging.
“He doesn’t look like people to me,” I told her.
The cat may or may not have understood me. It raised its head and gave me the stink-eye. It’s possible that’s just how cats look, though. I’m not an expert.
There was no misreading her expression, though.
It was clear that I was not going to change her mind about the whole “animals-with-human-names” issue. I tried my best to recover.
“He certainly seems—,” I stalled, frantically searching for the right word. “Cuddly.”
“Great,” I thought. “I’m doing well. Make it seem like you could be its friend.”
“Hey, buddy,” I called it. I bent down and made the “come-here-small-furry-animal” noise.
The cat ignored me.
She watched it watching me. She did nothing to help.
I stood, and went to the animal. I tried to pat it.
It bit me.
The evening went downhill from there.
I highly doubt that Andrew and I will ever be friends.