Cats are a part of my life—sometimes whether I like it or not, LOL. So I write about them. But a cat isn’t something that can be corralled into a poem, as if I could capture them with words. More probably, cats indifferently wander into my poems because they have nothing better to do, or because I’m not paying attention to them, and if anyone is going to not pay attention to someone, it’s going to be them not paying attention to me. So there.
The following sonnet captures a story familiar to cat owners. I hope readers will find it amusing (my family laughed, and I don’t think they were faking 😉). But I don’t recommend reading it just before you eat 😆
Nine I’ve barely cracked a book of poems when a lurching, braying, guttural noise erupts— like a donkey crossed with a sump pump. I jump up to see what’s up and find my cat has thrown up. But it’s just a little puddle sooo…. I go for paper towels downstairs. WHOA. Just three steps down I find another pool, and every step past has MORE bilious drool. I minefield-prance past bile piles, lighting on the basement floor, then to my horror, spy a slop of hair and spit that makes me wan. At times like this, I wonder: “Why do I have pets?” Some people say cats have nine lives. To me, right now, that’s just nine ways to die.