The stray cat outside my building in Buenos Aires has never once let anyone pet him except, apparently, the mail carrier, a man named Hugo who's delivered on our street for over twenty years. "He hates everyone," my neighbor Delfina told me, watching the cat weave affectionately around Hugo's ankles while hissing at literally every other human within a ten-foot radius, myself included. "Except him. Nobody knows why." I asked Hugo directly, mostly out of jealousy after getting scratched trying to say hello for the third time. "He remembers," Hugo said simply, continuing his route without slowing down. "I found him half-starved behind the panadería nine years ago, brought him food every day for two months before he trusted anyone near him. Everyone else just sees a cat now. He still sees the guy with the sandwich." "Nine years and he's only ever warmed up to you?" Hugo shrugged, already three doors down, sliding an envelope through a slot without breaking stride. "Some animals decide who's safe once, and that's the whole list forever. Doesn't matter how nice everyone else tries to be after the fact. I got there first." I tried the sandwich approach myself after that, tuna instead of whatever Hugo used, offered patiently for weeks. The cat ate every piece and scratched me anyway, every single time, entirely unmoved. "List's closed," Hugo told me, laughing, watching this play out from across the street. "Nine years and one sandwich too late."