|Posted on 2004-11-12 01:35:20 by Denver|
Monologue of a Brooklyn Cat November 3, 2004
The first thing to note is that I am not one of them.
Those afraid of larger movements and shifting allegiances.
Those born without pride or pedigree.
Scavengers and layabouts
biting the hands that feed them.
I love humans.
The way they stroke my underneath.
The hand warmth and rhythms of blessed touch.
I have a warm place to live and a soft place to lie
I have numerous positions of luxuriousness.
Although my enemies live outside
I am no more troubled by them than the occasional squirrel
or that mouse living behind the stove.
It concerns me whenever I see those strays
slinking around the yard without regard
for life, limb or property.
They don't like me either.
I know that.
I accept it.
I still go outside.
I prefer the flora and soft light of the indoors but
I need the sunshine, the air, and the bugs on my whiskers
to remind me that I am but a player in a vast public theater.
My place is with my master.
Though I share her with others
no one else watches her bike, crushes her hats, or gets that special scratch in the manner that I do.
We know what the other wants.
The immediacy is everything.
Occasionally I must fecate.
I am not a houseplant.
I do this delicately and with tasteful discretion.
They don't have cat toilets.
I wish they did.
I love the wideness and watery depths
of that white porcelain chamber.
One of my masters likes R&B.
He has no one else.
As he bounces and spins me through the air
he should remember
I have claws and I have teeth.
I love them all though.
I let them touch me everywhere
except my legs.
Don't just grab my back legs.
I hate that.
What kept them all at home last night I don't know.
Figures melted and sparkled across that flickering radius
of a box they call a TV.
They stared in silence.
But no one brushed my coat.
No one filled my bowl.
Salt was spilled and fingers jabbed the air.
Tense postures burrowed into the couch.
In the morning
they stood limply in front of the box and gazed
at the lighted conversation
speaking in hushed tones.
As if someone was asleep.
Or somebody had passed away.
I took a crap in the rubber tree.
No one cleaned it up.
No one even noticed
the little bird I caught on the fire escape
twitching merrily to death
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