Meet Foxy, the only domesticated animal allowed inside the premises of our apartment. He likes staring at people and he drools all the time.
One time, I reached over to gently run my fingers through his furry head. He looked away instantly. I now have all reasons to believe that the dog I love hates me. It’s tragic, I know. But he’s adorable so I think I’ll forgive him.
Four months in, and still, things haven’t changed at all. I haven’t gained his sympathy. He doesn’t budge when I call him. He doesn’t even move away when he’s blocking the staircase while I transfer my stuff (cumbersome shit, really) from the car to our room.
He’s not a total douche, though. Whenever our landlord’s car is entering the basement, he would enthusiastically prance around like he was about to crap then or there or something. And at least, he had no attempts to go aggro on us.
His actions betray his words. But if he preferred that I believe that he genuinely does not give a fuck about anyone except his master, then fine, I’ll bite. I can’t tear down his walls if he won’t let me.
Or maybe, he’s really an aloof cat in disguise.