I promise to tell the truth. The whole truth. Honestly.
I promise never to forget where I hide my nuts. Well, or at least to remember that they exist somewhere. I just buried your nut in a snowdrift — but which one? Already forgot. I promise to remember better. (We'll see.)
I promise not to use my winter coat as a tactical advantage to stir up pity. And not to stand perfectly still like this — paw over my heart, posing like a living postcard — when I spot you pulling something that rustles so temptingly from your pocket.
I promise not to jump onto your lap uninvited. Not to perform acrobatic stunts between branches just to impress you. And not to gnaw on your bench to file my teeth — they grow faster than I can chew pinecones anyway. Pinecones! Now where did I… never mind.
I also promise to be right here tomorrow too. You'll come back, won't you? So I can remind you that kindness means sharing your last nut with a creature of indescribable beauty and fluffiness who will almost certainly lose it within five minutes. (But not me — I promised, remember?)
So if you do hand me a few more nuts — I promise to eat them right away. Won't run off to stash them. Just gobble them up. And maybe, just maybe, flick my tail on the way out. Not out of gratitude — just because it looks nicer that way. Then I'll go back to my carefully hidden supplies. Which probably exist. Somewhere. I think. 🐿️
That's the little story that unfolded between me and a squirrel in the snowdrift. Maybe she was just cold. Or maybe she really was begging — and got exactly what she wanted. I prefer to think we shared a silent understanding right there in the snow.
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