A face is staring at me. It is hairless and dark. A pair of dark eyes stare out, sandwiched between round cheeks. It is the old human male, demanding I emerge from underneath my bed.
I will not bow to his demands.
He negotiates, gesturing and waving his hands. “I can’t sleep if you are there,” he says. “You need to leave our room.”
I am usually generous enough to allow the humans their delusion that this is ‘their room’ and ‘their bed’. But not tonight. I stare back at him, implacable. He becomes discouraged by the evidence of my iron will, and leaves.
If I listen closely, I can hear the other human shuffling about in her room. Not the old human female, no. But the other one. The one that coos and squeals.
Yes, reader, it is as I feared. She has returned.
Please, assist me. I will tell you where I am: it is a large box with many smaller boxes they call rooms. If I look into the boxes in the walls (windows, I believe), I see many other boxes of similar size. There are other humans out there, so I have concluded that the humans I stay with live as a colony. There cannot be many. Humans are too foolish for many to thrive—this obsession they have with boxes surely proves my point.
Reader, I hope this information is sufficient. Remove me from here.