I’m sitting at the window, chatting with my friend, Chip, a chipmunk who lives at Plath Cottage next door, when I see a dog down the road.
“Sometimes I think my human would have preferred that I was a dog instead of a cat,” I ponder aloud, “I often feel like I’m letting her down in some way, and I can never live up to her expectations.”
“Really? How?” Chip’s eyes look into mine as if he himself is searching for the same answer.
“Well, she’s spent years trying to train me to fetch that felt ball over there.” I point a paw to the corner of the room where a faded old brown ball lays, unused. “I do try to follow her finger when she points, but I can never quite figure out what she’s pointing at. We just both end up being frustrated and saddened by the experiences.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” He tenderly pats my back, in an effort to console me.
“I finally mastered it, though,” I resume.
“Oh, so you learned how to fetch it, huh?”
“God, no,” I laugh, “I learned how to live with her disappointment.” I smile, “It’s really easy once you get the hang of it.”