My human stood in the tallest room I have ever not been invited to, wearing white, which is the color of the fur I shed onto black trousers as a gift, and let a crowd of strangers watch it be nervous.
There were flowers everywhere. Cut flowers. Standing in water, in the open, at nose height, and not one person circled the room to knock them down. Amateurs, all of them.
My human held the hand of another human and made promises with a wet, trembling voice, the same voice it uses on the phone when it says it will "definitely be home by six." I know that voice. That voice is aspirational.
They exchanged small metal rings, sealing a bond, apparently, forever. I have never worn a collar for more than four minutes. The concept did not survive contact with me.
Then everyone ate off tall tables I could have cleared in a single considered stroll, and my human cried and laughed at the same time, which in my experience means a creature has been cornered by its own feelings and is trying to look brave about it.
It came home smelling of forty strangers and cake it did not offer me. It kept saying "best day of my life" to the walls, to the mirror, to no one, the way it talks to me when it wants something I will not give.
I let it believe the day belonged to it.
Then I climbed onto the folded white dress it had draped so carefully over the chair, turned three slow circles, and went to sleep in the exact center, where the crying had left it warmest.