I clattered into the room still reeking of cologne and tonic when he caught me. He rolled his head back and yawned, identifying me as the menace of his perfect Sunday morning. He was sprawled across the bed and had probably waited there all night for my belated arrival. In daylight, his eyes were almost human, a shade of blue usually reserved for smoothed sea-glass or a Montana sky, but I remember there was something particularly startling about the way he looked at me that morning: as if he had stood witness to my actions and disapproved. I shook off the feeling; what use is judgment to an animal? I closed the curtains and pulled him close to me, “I’m glad you have no voice to tell my secrets.” His tail twitched.