My mother didn't understand this, but she supported me in everything:
"You've grown up and now you're the spitting image of your father! I want everything to be good for you, son. You're quite grown up now, and I'm letting you go find your path. Step softly but confidently, rely on yourself. But sometimes, if you need help, you can and should ask for it. From humans, from good humans – you'll understand who is who."
And yes, mother taught me to understand humans. I simply didn't approach those who smelled of lies and pretense. These humans could harm me and cause me pain. I went to those who smelled of kindness and affection. From my mother, I inherited this love of humans and instinct about them.
***
And She kept coming every evening. We watched episodes of "Friends": I liked my namesake Ross, he was funny and wasn't afraid to love and trust. We discussed chapters from Her new book with Her. Well, actually, She whispered words to me that neatly arranged themselves into lines. I liked it. And I liked Her. She was gentle like my mother, proud and independent like my father.
I often made Her laugh. Sometimes chasing my tail, sometimes catching flies in mid-air. She would laugh heartily, and I would watch Her. I couldn't do that. When I was happy, I purred.
One day She came to me with wet eyes, took me in her arms, and tiny droplets fell on me like a light rain. I managed to taste one: it was salty. I thought I did it unnoticed, but She saw and laughed. That's how I stopped that salty rain. Later I learned that humans cry when they're sad. I couldn't do that. When I was sad, I went to sleep.
One day She came to me in the afternoon. I was sleeping on the bench, and my fur was beautifully gleaming and shimmering in the kind spring sunshine. I sensed Her a hundred steps away, the scent was special, familiar. She sat down and gently stroked my head.