The Felines

 Let's backtrack to the weekend.  Exotic Feline Rescue Center. The home of the rescued Big Cats. My mom's in the golf cart with the guide.  Husbandman, D.A.D., Li'l Sister and I are walking along.  There's one young woman in the party with a long braid.  I don't know her name.  I think about introducing myself, but what would be the point really?

This braided gal loves the big cats.  She keeps getting off the trail to approach the fences to speak to the cats in a babyish voice.  I keep my eye on her the entire time, anticipating the use of Husbandman's belt as a tourniquet for her bloody stump of an arm. This really detracts from my big cat enjoyment.

During the tour, the guide shares horror stories about the cruelty of the circus and the stupidity of people who buy tiger cubs.  At the end, we are checking out a couple of servals when braidedGal says, "But why can't they be pets?  Why would it be bad?"

We are silent, until Li'l Sister takes over. "They spray all over your house.  Smell that?  You want your house to smell like that?"
Braidedgal asks, "But can their glands be removed somehow?"
Li'l Sister stares at BraidedGal for a hot second and says, "They're. not. pets.  Not Pets."  She shakes her head and glares at Braided Gal. The tour guide echoes Li'l Sister's words. "They're not pets,"  she mutters as she drives golf cart down the trail.

We leave BraidedGal and the Big Cats behind. As we drive home, BraidedGal is our main subject of conversation.  You can probably imagine some of the stuff we say about BraidedGal.