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His person called; Caesar was more affectionate.  Not only that, but he was asking for affection, and that was big.  He’d begun to sleep on her bed, too.  He hadn’t done that in years.

A few days passed and the affection continued.  He seemed to have stopped tinkling;  I was cautiously optimistic.  Then, a hitch.  He’d tinkled on the dog bed again but the person confessed that she hadn’t taken the usual precautions.

Well of course!  The precautions.   Please, take them, I recommended.

A day or two passed and a photo popped up in my email.  “I think he’s communicating something,” she said.  There was Caesar, lying in the middle of the enormous, much-insulted dog bed.  A tiny gray head, a vast sea of velour; I zoomed in close for a look at his eyes.  There I saw laser-like determination.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he communicated.

He communicated it for an entire day without taking a break.  At some point the giant dog eased his 90 or perhaps 110 pounds onto the edge of the dog bed but you could tell from the picture that as ideas go, it would prove to be brilliant or maybe really stupid.  The cat remained.

“I think,” the person reported, “Caesar needs a big cushy bed of his own.  Maybe one of those donuts?”

Earlier she had confessed how foreign she found the idea of communicating with her cat, but was she getting the hang of it already?  It seemed that she was.

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