It’s a thousand-mile stare into your soul. We’ve nicknamed her The Scientist for the way she studies the world, with every look a new eureka moment fires up in her mysterious mind. I’m pretty sure she can read me — in fact, I have definite proof that she can and that she will anticipate my own thoughts before I even think them — however, what she does with that information is the true enigma. How many steps ahead of me is she on her secret chessboard? And then, suddenly, none of it really matters as she starts collecting her bottle caps, hiding and seeking them around the house, yelling at them in abandon. Our participation in her game is completely optional, she will just keep going. She’s a creature of distant companionship, lurking around the room, almost like a dark shadow with a piercing gaze — except when she’s not: her fuzzy embrace is the white noise that placates your senses, even if only for a brief instant. And then she’s gone again, perhaps now observing you like your guardian angel — or a PhD student — from an undisclosed location.