The Doctor set aside his tablet to gaze affectionately across the breakfast table at Rose. "I've been thinking…" he began.
"Now we're in for it," she quipped, grinning.
"Maybe we could get a cat. If you want?"
"But you don't fancy them, you said."
"Weeellll, I don't much fancy large bipedal cats in nun's wimples, no, not really, but the little ones are all right. Besides, you do fancy them. You told me that you used to have a cat, the day after we met."
His words earned him a shining-eyed smile. He really did remember the things they'd said and done together before.
"And I saw the way you were playing with Mr. Ginger Tom. So, what do you say?"
"I think I'd like that, a lot."
"So, where does one go to get a cat? Breeder? Pet shop?"
"Animal shelter," Rose informed him firmly. "We go to the shelter and we find a little one who really, really needs us."
"Brilliant," the Doctor replied softly. That was so Rose, wanting to help a stray, when, in this world, she was the daughter of a multi-millionaire and lived in a mansion. "Can we go now?" he added, eagerly.
"Why not?" Rose agreed, standing and beginning to clear the table.
"Mmm?" She didn't look up from the dishes she was rinsing in the sink.
"D'you think we can get a brown one, with pinstripes?"
"That's a tabby, you nutter!"
Rose dissolved into helpless giggles, and he took the opportunity to sweep her into a joyful embrace.