A few minutes ago, I was petting Smokey with the blunt end of a butter knife. I pointed out to Skylar that my ministrations were welcome. Skylar was incensed. But then I made clear that I wasn't using the cutting part of the blade. Plus, butter knives barely cut to begin with. The following conversation ensued:
Me: Skylar, can you even imagine me hurting a cat?
Skylar: I don't know. Anyone who likes Foucault could hurt a cat.
Apparently, her early training in critical theory, back when I would show her the books I was reading when she took a break from Teletubbies, has not abandoned her. It will be interesting to see what she thinks when she can actually read Foucault, which will be in less time than it's been since those days when she was toddling about our place in Vallejo.