The Invitation

When I first moved in with Mom, I wasn’t allowed on the furniture. Well, okay, we told everybody I wasn’t allowed on the furniture, and whenever we had company I’d be a good boy, but when it was just Mom and I, she’d pick me up and play with me on the couch… our secret!
I loved couch time so much that eventually I started jumping up on the couch whenever she sat down, but it wasn’t the same.

“Were you invited?” She would ask me.

I would look at her expectantly, my tail wagging as it slowly occurred to me that no, I wasn’t invited, and I’d hop back down. The couch just isn’t as warm if I’m not invited… I’ve gotten better at figuring out when I’m invited though. Sometimes I can even hop up without needing a vocal invitation, but I still like to be sure I’m invited. Something about the invitation makes me feel sure that it’s okay for me to be up there, that there’s a place for me; otherwise, I’m just walking all over people, which isn’t super comfy.

Of course, every now and then I’ll try my luck and hop up on my own. It feels weird, but sometimes Mom lets me get away with it!