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An incomplete list of things that David does not understand:
The feline obsession with the red dot. Seriously, it’s simple, intangible optics, and yet. Even a cat of superior breeding and privilege like Mr. Wobbles is rendered a mindless automaton when the red dot appears.
Showers. Insofar as David can see, humans strip, get into the water, get wet, come out, and undo it all with a towel. What, praytell, is the point? And why is it sometimes an enthusiastic group activity?
Humans asking dogs ‘are you itchy?’ before offering skritches. Dogs are made of fur; of course they’re itchy. The sky is blue and dogs are itchy.
Socks. Floors are slippery. Why do humans make it worse by putting fabric on their feet?
Elevators. Seriously. In the box, out of the box. You’re someplace different. Wizardry.
“New Years”. Why, every seven years (as David understands time), do the humans insist on dressing up, staying up WAY PAST any reasonable being’s bedtime, making a bunch of coordinated noises after HOURS of drinking and dancing, and watching loud sparks in the sky?
There are definite pros to whatever this “New Years” thing is - namely, as the humans drink and dance, they tend to drop food. And while David has a discerning palate, he isn’t above retrieving cheese, or pretzels, or chips, or pickles, or salami, or crackers, or carrots, or peanuts, or Cheetos that have fallen at his feet. He’s no fool though - sweets are a one way ticket to the emergency vet - so he abstains.
Also, despite being irritated at the condescending nature of the high-pitched ‘are you itchy?’, it is entirely possible that David has never felt as well skritched as he does tonight. Especially because some of the guests have adorned their nails with literal talons - possibly in service of the skritches? It’s really the only reasonable expectation because they honestly look ridiculous.
So, given he won’t be able to sleep anyway, David spends the evening circulating amongst guests, snacking, enjoying the feel of acrylic as it parts his fur and scratches what itches, and just biding his time until -
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1
And then a chaotic chorus of shouts HAPPY NEW YEAR!
And then, literally, the only part of the evening David likes - despite loud explosions of light overhead. His Henry and His Henry’s Alex wrapped up in each other, letting David tangle himself between their feet for safety. His Henry smiling as His Henry’s Alex kisses him, one hand on his Henry’s waist, and the other wrapped gently on his Henry’s face, something gleaming on his finger. David would give up all the cheese, or pretzels, or chips, or pickles, or salami, or crackers, or carrots, or peanuts, or Cheetos in the world for his Henry to smile, but thanks to his Henry’s Alex, he doesn’t have to. His Henry’s Alex sees to it, in fact, both by making his Henry so incandescently happy, and by dropping Ritz minis with cheese intentionally for David to find.
An incomplete list of things that David does understand:
The difference between brand name Ritz minis with cheese and the generic brand. Seriously. Uncle Philip tried to pass off the imitation brand once, and David made sure to lick a wet spot on his pillow.
Basic Math. If he sees you take three treats from the bag, and you only offer two, he will be sure to lick a wet spot on your pillow.
How vital his Henry’s Alex is to his Henry’s happiness. And if anyone tries to mess with that, you don’t even want to know what he’ll do to your pillow.