Cat’s are not too proud to ask for help
Cats are proud animals. We are proud, but we do allow people to live with us in our homes. I have been very kind to the Hodges family and let them each have their own bedroom. I prefer to sleep in the basement on a wool blanket on an old couch. I like my privacy.
The married couple has the bedroom with an attached bath. And each of the children have a room. Mrs. Hodges has been instructed to keep a litter box in each of the bedrooms, as I don’t want to have to walk very far if I need to use the restroom.
I am not too proud to ask for help. Really, I am not. There are so many things I can’t do for myself. And, to be honest, if I could, I wouldn’t do them anyhow. Humans clean my litter box. If I had thumbs I would use them to type my stories, not clean litter boxes.
Humans seem to like being my servants. They open the door for me to let me out. They feed me. I don’t have to wash my dishes or get clean water for my bowl. I don’t ask for help. I command. Politely of course. There is no reason to ask rudely. I don’t make demands. I just look at my staff with a questioning look, and they feed me or open the front door.
I refer to them as “my staff.” But really they serve me.
When I want Mrs. Hodges to type my stories I just place my hand gently on her hand when she is typing. She stops what she is doing and types as I dictate my stories.
Mrs. Hodges doesn’t like to ask for help. She has been writing a book for months. She doesn’t know how to design book covers. Her friend does but she just wouldn’t ask. I talked to her a few days ago and encouraged her to ask her friend. Her friend is going to help her now.
I don’t think humans appear weak if they ask for help. Mrs. Hodges is always asking me to help her with her stories. I don’t think she is weak. I think she is wise to consult my superior intelligence. I know how to craft a story. I am, “The Cat Who Writes.”
Why don’t humans like to ask for help? I really don’t understand.
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About Pooh Hodges
I have had a hard life. Born to a single mother in a back alley in Wisconsin. I never knew my father. My sister died young. I am writing my story. Look for it.