Having had a glass of wine at Klaudio’s, I am walking down Borgo. Half way to my house, I see a street cat walking up the street. I know it well. It brings up several litters a year. I walk straight toward the cat. We are still some distance apart. The cat first stops in its tracks, gives me a good look, and then turns toward the wall to its right. I turn left. The cat turns toward the opposite wall. I turn right, still walking straight toward the cat. And so on, several times. At long last, the cat crouches behind a stone step leading to the doorway of a house. When I stop, towering above it now, the cat lets out a long, plaintive mew: “What the hell is wrong with you, mister?!” Suddenly filled with remorse, I step aside to let the cat pass. Without a word, I bow chivalrously and extend my arm to one side by way of invitation: “Your humble servant, madam.” After another good look at me, the cat crawls out from behind the step and walks past me at a clip.