Claude is offended, frankly, that the fluffy mutt here at the pseudo-French cafe appears to like the drunk back-slapping Australians every bit as much as he likes him. The same tail-wagging enthusiasm, the same benedictory small licks. So much for his St. Francis fantasies. Fuzzy slut.
The same way you can get to feeling, some afternoons at the baths, that you must be good-looking, until you see who the guy who was just with you goes with next.