“Why exactly are you here? What is your raison d’être?”
His unflinching china blues held mine.
“All you do is eat and sleep, do you think this is simply a hotel?
What do I get from this relationship?”
Cool as ice, no emotion, no response.
“You never do a paw’s turn, you’re the original fat cat.”
His eyes never left mine, but maybe…
Just maybe, there was a slight narrowing of the pupils.
A feline philosopher, pondering his purpose perhaps,
Or perhaps just the windows into a blank mind.
Behind me the mouse rustled and scuttled and squeaked
In the woodpile.
“This is your one and only task,” I shouted.
Rustle, scuttle and squeak.
“So get off that fluffy backside and get that mouse.”
Rustle, scuttle and squeak.
His iceberg eyes flicked behind me and back again,
Then he yawned, scratched his ear and,
With a sneer, finally replied.
“That isn’t a mouse; it’s clearly a rat,
And what’s more, it’s as big as a cat.
So there ain’t no way that I’m fighting that…
…That’s dogs’ work.”
I stared at the ‘mouse’ scuttling in the wood,
And had to admit that, although a lazy, fat cat,
He could at least tell the difference,
Between a mouse and a rat.
Damn cats, think they’re so smart.
