"Then it will have to wait until after dinner, my pant leg doesn't roll up that far."

She nods.

"Which leg is it?"

"Right, mostly."

So she can, tentatively, slowly, rub her cheek on Isabella's left one, right?

Of course she can. Scritch scritch.

Eeeee. Less tentative, then, since she's apparently not rubbing a tender spot or anything.

"You're so cute."

She giggles. "And I only try a little!"

"What would it look like if you tried a lot?"

"The cutepocalypse, of course."

"Oh no! Not the cutepocalypse!"

"Yep. The only thing standing between the world and certain destruction is me, resisting the temptation to really try to be cute."

"How would this even happen?" wonders Isabella.

"What, the cutepocalypse or me resisting the temptation?"

"The cutepocalypse."

"I would be so cute people wouldn't be able to stop looking at me and going 'aaawwww.' And they'd forget to eat and all die."

"That sounds like a localized problem. The Japanese would be unaffected."

"No, see, it would call to people. They wouldn't even know why they're doing it, but they'd all be drawn to the cuteness."

"Then it'll taper off as soon as you're buried in bodies."

"That's what the horsemen of the cutepocalypse are for, cleaning up the bodies."

"Aha. I thought they were decorative."

"Nope. It's quite the thankless job, they have a union and everything and sometimes go on strike to demand higher pay and more vacation days."

"So if they strike, or go on too long a vacation, the cutepocalypse is over!"

"No, it's just paused, they always eventually get back to work."

"Hmmm. What if the area is fenced off?"