My human unfolds a small black wing over its head and calls this an act of defense.
The sky has begun its cold spitting again, the kind that flattens my fur into insult, and my human, rather than doing the sensible thing and remaining indoors near the warm humming box, chooses to walk directly into the falling water. But first: the wing. A press of a button, a snap, and suddenly it carries a taut membrane above itself like a beetle that has learned shame.
It is very proud of this. I can tell by the way it holds the little handle out from its body, wrist stiff, marching down the wet street as though it has outwitted the weather itself.
It has not. The water simply goes around. Its legs are soaked to the knee within seconds. The wing keeps only the top of its head dry, which is the one part of a body no rain has ever meaningfully threatened.
I watched it wrestle the thing closed at the door, the ribs bucking against it, spraying cold droplets across my clean floor, and I understood at last: my human did not build a shelter. It built a small storm it can carry, one that drips on command and lives folded in the corner like a sleeping bat.
When it left, it forgot to close the door all the way.
I did not go out. I am not a fool. But I sat in the exact center of the drying wing where it lay collapsed on the rug, and I let the last of its warmth become mine, and I slept there, unbothered, until the wet spot on the floor was the only proof either of us had ever moved at all.