Later On

Megs does the thing of finding a place on the carpet she likes (usually in a pathway), crouching down comfortably with her front paws tucked her, and then retracting her brain so that she is, in effect, a soft, furry rock. I suspect that this happens one the cat fully trusts you—she knows I’m not going to step on her, so she just looks as I walk by or step over or whatever. At that stage of the relationship, the cat will also walk across you as though you’re furniture (The Wife’s phrase).

I like to think of a couple who have never had a cat adopting one and trying to figure it out. For example, I picture them waiting at the vet’s when the door opens and taking the cat in. "We don’t know what’s wrong with her. Last night, about half an hour after dinner, everything was fine, and then she suddenly had some sort of fit. She was running up and down the hallway and around the room like something terrible was chasing her. We almost called you then, but we waited until this morning. What’s wrong with her?"

Or someone familiar with dogs who catches the cat drinking from their water glass. They get the cat, bring it to the glass, and say "No!" firmly, pointing at the glass, and believe they have dealt with the problem.