My cat Provolone has a specific vendetta against my Peloton, sitting directly on the console the second I start pedaling, and I didn't understand the pattern until my husband pointed it out from the couch. "He only does it when you're actually trying," he said. "Watch, do an easy ride." I did an easy ride. Provolone stayed on the windowsill, unbothered, barely glancing over. I switched to an interval class the next morning, out of spite mostly, wanting to prove him wrong. Forty seconds into the first sprint, Provolone was already crossing the room at a dead sprint of his own, launching onto the console and sitting directly on the resistance display like he was personally vetoing the effort. "He thinks you're in danger," my husband said, entirely serious. "Cats read heavy breathing and fast heart rates as distress. You sound like you're being chased by something. He's coming to check." I didn't believe that until I found an actual study confirming something close to it — cats responding to labored human breathing as a potential emergency, especially cats bonded closely enough to notice a baseline. I've started narrating my workouts out loud now, mid-sprint, just to reassure him. "I'm fine, buddy, this is on purpose." He doesn't seem convinced. He still comes every single time, sits on the display, waits out the interval like a tiny, disapproving lifeguard. My husband finds this hilarious. I've started doing easy rides more often than I probably should, mostly just for the peace.