Clothes are the fur we choose

Mink watched me today as I stepped out of the shower and got dressed. He usually does - and always with a quizzical expression that seems to say "Why do you have to put your fur on and take it off all the time? What a pain." Mink is a very well-groomed gentleman, but never changes out of his impeccable (and vintage - he inherited it from his mother) fur coat. To him, our strange habit of zipping ourselves into fur of outlandish shapes and colours must seem time-consuming and perverse. Mink is Mink. He doesn't need to assert his personality through his appearance. He finds his black coat useful for camouflage as he stalks the sparrows in the garden. He enjoys shedding hairs on our paler clothes, and sleeping on our clean washing. He is a slender dribble of dark ink; a hole cut in the fabric of the universe; a mysterious and shadowy figure with mysterious and shadowy thoughts. I doubt he harbours dreams of being a ginger cat, no matter how debonair they may look; and I have seen him give white cats a look of extreme distaste. I think he sees them as precious, too careful of their pristine coats. He only really trusts tabbies and other black cats (although he did have an illicit fling with a neighbouring pedigree Siamese once. We don't talk about it). He is happy to wear only one outfit, because that one outfit defines him (attempts to put a collar on him have resulted in disaster. He is not a fan of accessorising). He accompanies me outside each day as I take my outfit photos, and watches me with half-closed eyes. More new fur, he thinks. Why can't she just be happy in her own skin? I try to explain societal norms to him - indecent exposure, that sort of thing - but he shrugs it off. I suppose everyone is entitled to their hobby, no matter how strange, he says.