My Stroke of Genius in the Bath

So Kennedy's a cat, the following has many references to the Cuban Missile Crisis, Cleo's a hypochondriac. Any comments, suggestions and improvements are welcomed.

"No matter how much I want to, we can't keep him Winston, it's not fair on Kennedy. He's agitated and this is his home. This should be a place of relaxation. Besides, the dog doesn't even have a name."

Laughing, Winston said, "We could call him Khrushchev."

Cleo laughed too at the reference. She felt a little knot in her throat and a growing fondness for Winston. She blinked hard and said, "They can't work out an amicable decision though, not without Kennedy ending up with less than he began with anyway."

"True true," Winston said, chuffed that she'd understood his joke. "The only thing he can lose is his home, and that's not right. I'll put an advertisement in the paper then, and keep him at my house for a week."

"And then?"

"And then I'll try my hardest to let him go. I know it's like the enemy forming connections to you that are too close for comfort, but please don't set up a blockade!"

They mockingly shook hands. "I don't aspire to damage relations Sir, EXCOMM and I have learnt from past mistakes. You have my word."

Laughing, Winston went to take the newly-named Khrushchev to his house, and Cleo slumped on the couch in confusion and panic over her new feelings. She'd never felt like that before - was she ill? She made a note to herself to visit the library soon.