Cat Poetry

My cat perches on the edge of the tub, watching me bathe. How strange, these humans, to shed their furs and submerge themselves in water, how strange, and yet when the water drains, she sits in the tub and wishes she could wet her paws.

My cat does not fear water. She is a primal hunter and knows not fear, but she admits that water, in most forms, displeases her and will not be tolerated.

She watches the drops fall from the leaky tap. She tastes one with her tongue. Ah, so fresh, much fresher than her bowl which neglectful humans let sit for days. She licks her lips. Her whiskers twitch and she dreams of the sea.

She is now a sailing cat. Sea spray beads on her fur. She puts back her ears and yeowls against the pounding waves. The air about her tastes of fish.

She swishes her tail and balances on the edge of the sink, imagining it is the rail of a clipper ship. The gulls scold her, but she scolds back and they fall away, subdued. Her hiss singes their ears.

With a mighty leap, she dives into the waters. She sinks beneath the waves where all is calm. Suspended she floats, watching the glint of scales as a school of fish swims about her. She springs forward. The water in her mind gives no resistance and the tuna scatter like frightened pigeons.

She clutches a fat prize in her jaws. The juice of the fish so succulent, so fresh, that her stomach growls. She licks her whiskers as the dream fades. Rising from the bathmat, she stretches and yawns and pretends to be content with her lot.

She hears the familiar crunch and whir as a can opener cuts through tin. Romping down the hall, she springs onto the counter. She smells fish, not as fresh as in her dream, but real and moist against her waiting tongue.

Her realm is the kitchen, the cushioned couch, wherever she chooses to lie. I am her servant, at her beck and call. She knows this. She lives this. She is satisfied.