My cat Pretzel has stolen exactly one item of laundry from every single machine at the laundromat below my apartment for the past two years, and the owner, Mr. Choi, has started keeping a lost-and-found bin specifically labeled "PRETZEL'S." "He got a onesie today," Mr. Choi told me, holding up tiny striped pajamas like evidence. "Baby's mother came back for it twice already. Very upset." "I'll bring it back," I said, mortified, for probably the fortieth time. "No, no," he said, waving me off. "People come back for the bin now. It's good for business. Everybody knows Pretzel's bin, everybody checks it even if they didn't lose anything, buys a coffee while they look." I didn't believe that until I actually watched it happen…. a woman searching for a missing sock, not finding it, buying a candy bar from the vending machine out of what I can only describe as guilty loyalty to the establishment that had housed her sock's kidnapper. "He's basically an employee," Mr. Choi said, entirely serious, sliding him half a fish cake under the folding table. The baby's mother came in a third time last week. Mr. Choi handed her the onesie before she even asked, already smiling. "Pretzel says sorry," he told her. She laughed, actually laughed, tension gone completely, and bought two coffees on her way out. Pretzel was already back at it an hour later, dragging a single striped sock toward his corner like a job he'd never once considered optional.