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Letters from a Cat
·
Helen Hunt Jackson
7
She
had
outgrown
my
little
chair,
which
had
a
green
moreen
cushion
in
it,
on
which
she
had
slept
for
many
a
year,
and
of
which
I
myself
had
very
little
use,--she
was
in
it
so
much
of
the
time.
But
now
that
this
was
too
tight
for
her,
she
took
possession
of
the
most
comfortable
places
she
could
find,
all
over
the
house.
Now
it
was
a
sofa,
now
it
was
an
arm-chair,
now
it
was
the
foot
of
somebody's
bed.
But
wherever
it
happened
to
be,
it
was
sure
to
be
the
precise
place
where
she
was
in
the
way,
and
the
poor
thing
was
tipped
headlong
out
of
chairs,
shoved
hastily
off
sofas,
and
driven
off
beds
so
continually,
that
at
last
she
came
to
understand
that
when
she
saw
any
person
approaching
the
chair,
sofa,
or
bed
on
which
she
happened
to
be
lying,
the
part
of
wisdom
for
her
was
to
move
away.
And
it
was
very
droll
to
see
the
injured
and
reproachful
expression
with
which
she
would
slowly
get
up,
stretch
all
her
legs,
and
walk
away,
looking
for
her
next
sleeping-place.
Everybody
in
the
house,
except
me,
hated
the
sight
of
her;
and
I
had
many
a
pitched
battle
with
the
servants
in
her
behalf.
Even
my
mother,
who
was
the
kindest
human
being
I
ever
knew,
got
out
of
patience
at
last,
and
said
to
me
one
day:--
"Helen,
your
Pussy
has
grown
so
old
and
so
fat,
she
is
no
comfort
to
herself,
and
a
great
torment
to
everybody
else.
I
think
it
would
be
a
mercy
to
kill
her."
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