Visiting the home of a friend with a pet requires a type of strategy that is most commonly found in prisoner escape plans. Yeah, Andy Dufresne had to crawl through 500 yards of human waste, but I once had a friend's dog lick my leg for a solid 40 minutes because I was assured "She'll stop soon." I endured. Where's my Outstretched Arms in the Rain moment?
That's not rain water. That's dog saliva.
Pets get away with it because a lot of pet owners have lost their role as the leader of the house. This degradation can be seen on their tired, defeated faces when you walk in and their Labrador assumes your torso is their bed, and no amount of "Off, Drogo! Get your anus off his lips now, Drogo!" will change that. They are disheveled, subservient wrecks, catering to their pet's every fickle whim, living as second-class citizens in their own claw-marked homes.
Cats hold their own special torment for visiting friends. People don't own cats; they kidnap them and hold them against their will until an adorable form of Stockholm Syndrome sets in. They aren't easy to read as it is. They're even harder to gauge when a friend assures you they're lovable, so you reach out to pet it, only to discover otherwise after you're defibrillated back into consciousness in an ambulance. "Bad kitty," you'll mumble before you pass out again, the EMT's "Live, damn you! Live!" resounding as the last thing you hear before the loss of blood from all the scratches fades the world to black.