Sometimes when I work at my kitchen table, I feel a strong presence infiltrating my personal-space bubble. Then I turn around and see the infiltrator with my own two eyes. I see the giant white whiskers that popped tiny holes in my bubble. Personal space means zilch to a cat. Personal-space bubbles are to be popped as easily as those blown through a wand on a warm spring day.
With cats, we live a bubble-less existence.
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