Henry: The cat hates me. She's always biting and swatting.
Me: It's not personal. She's a cat. Cats are nuts. They hate it when you show too much affection.
Henry: I wasn't even touching her. I was looking at her.
Me: Yes, but with love, I bet. That's your first mistake.
Henry: I was lying there, and she reached over and swatted my face.
Me: You were gazing right at her, right? With love? WITH LOVE? Confess.
Henry: You're weird.
Me: Listen to me. With this cat, the more you like her, the less she likes you.
Henry: She loves Dad.
Me: Because he deeply, deeply dislikes her. And she can't get enough of it. She's all over him the minute he walks in the door. Do you need more proof that she is utterly bananas?
Henry: She's nice to you, too.
Me: Not as much as Dad, though. Because I don't hate her. But I do express my displeasure with her, frequently. That keeps her interested. I'm telling you, if you're more aloof she'll come around.
Henry: Fine. I don't think I like her anymore, anyway.
Me: Keep talking like that and she's going to fall in love, son.