ASK NOT WHAT YOUR CAT CAN DO FOR YOU

“When Cats Aren’t Just Pets but Secret Architects of History”

You know, I’ve never quite understood the cult-like devotion some people have to cats. For me, they’re just tiny dictators wrapped in fur.

And Amma? Well, she’s their most loyal subject.

Every day, she sacrifices the best of her pantry to appease her feline darlings, treating them like royalty while I spend my time playing hide-and-shoo to get them out from under the car.

One day, the black cat—Amma’s favourite—decided to shake things up. He didn’t run. Instead, he stepped forward, sat down, and stared at me with the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor. Then, in a deep, world-weary voice, he said, “We need to talk.”

Naturally, I froze. When a cat starts talking, you don’t argue; you question reality. The cat, introducing himself as Sir Pawsworth Whiskerford IX, wasted no time.

“We’ve noticed you’re the only one here who doesn’t like us,” he began, his tail flicking like a disapproving professor. “It’s affecting morale. So, I’m extending an olive branch—or, in our case, a paw of truce by sharing a secret—a story about my ancestor, Whiskerford the Magnificent. It’s time you understood the true greatness of cats.”

The year was 1961. John F. Kennedy was pacing his kitchen, hours before his inaugural speech. He was nervous, tossing draft after draft aside. Meanwhile, Rose Kennedy, the matriarch, was focused on a far more important task: preparing breakfast for Whiskerford the Magnificent, their family cat.​ A plate of salmon so delicate it could’ve been served in a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Whiskerford was no ordinary feline—he was the Kennedy family’s crown jewel. Picture a chubby, self-assured furball with the charisma of George Clooney and the appetite of a sumo wrestler.

As JFK threw another draft into the trash, he turned to Rose in frustration. “Mother,” he groaned, “why do we even keep this cat? He does nothing but eat and sleep. Dogs protect homes. Horses pull carriages. Even parrots can be taught to say something remotely useful. What does Whiskerford do?”

Rose didn’t even flinch. She was a woman of wit, and raising nine kids (and one incredibly spoiled cat) had sharpened her tongue. Without looking up, she said, “Jack, ask not what your cat can do for you; ask what you can do for your cat.”

JFK froze, his eyes widening. The words hit him like a bolt of lightning. “Mother,” he whispered, “you’re a genius!”

He grabbed a pen and began scribbling furiously on a napkin. Hours later, he stood before the nation, delivering the immortal line: “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” The crowd roared. History was made.

And Whiskerford? He spent the day lounging on the counter, dreaming of his next salmon feast.

As Sir Pawsworth wrapped up his tale, he looked at me with pompous triumph. “Now do you see?” he said. “Cats don’t just live rent-free in your house. We’re visionaries, muses, and occasionally, the secret architects of history. Without us, history would lack its most iconic moments.”

I wanted to argue, but honestly? The furry freeloaders seemed to have a point. And one thing was clear: Amma’s obsession suddenly made sense. These cats, for all their smugness, had a knack for being… well, extraordinary.

That said, I still wish they’d stop hiding under the car.