The cat left no suicide note
unlike the farmer who died
in the same way
head swathed in cling wrap
like a cellophane mummy
note fabricated:
he met with foul play.
His wife the killer — Insurance —
eager for a big pay.
But who would asphyxiate a cat
& dump it by the riverside
where dreamy poets wander
& children play?
.
The Cat inside me cannot settle.
“Do you want to go in or out?” I say.
She does not know.
She winds her way around my feet then nips my ankle.
“Okay, okay, I get it. You want food.
You always want food,”
I bend down, give her some leftovers
from breakfast.
“You were only fed a few hours ago,” I say.
“No. Not croissants”, she says.
“And certainly not a banana. I’m not a fucking monkey.
I want Stone Baked Ciabatta Loaf with honey.”
She is anything if not specific.
But, of course, we haven’t any.
I drive down to the supermarket, my inner cat
Turning with anticipation.
I get home. Give her some.
She’s satisfied. And so am I.
We both flop on the mattress and have
an afternoon nap.
The cat inside me purrs.
You know what happiness is? he said.
Contentment? I suggested.
Not even close, he said through the burnished orange of this late autumn afternoon.
Money? Wealth?
Come on, he said. You know better that that.
Then what? I asked.
Curiosity.
What?
It’s not true what they say about cats, you know. That old proverb about curiosity killed the cat. It’s to stop you changing lanes.
You’re beginning to sound like a zen poet, I said. Like Li Po.
Become like a cat, he said. Go out into the world, cat-curious. You can never NOT be happy if you’re finding out things.
do you agree?
where is happiness found for you?
what is the chief impediment for happiness, do you think?
Proceed With Caution, the sign said
But I proceeded anyway
& came upon a cat
On the cold hillside
Its fur
Damp with dew
Its head
Helmeted in cling wrap
& wished the hell I hadn’t
The cat had just killed a canary.
Bad, bad cat, said the bird lover who was staying at my place for the weekend.
Easy, I said, Remember what happened at the restaurant last night when you ordered barramundi for the first time and complained it was too fishy?
Yes. So?
Well, I said, you may as well berate a barramundi for being a fish as to castigate a cat for killing a canary.
It’s Milly’s birthday today.
It is?
Yes. But what do you buy a cat who has everything?
A parachute.
A parachute?
Yes. The next time she gets on the roof and can’t get down all she has to do is jump.
Was photographed
on a bus seat with sunglasses
smoking a cigarette,
on a pedestal wearing a tiny
camouflage boonie hat,
floating on a little pillow in a
wading pool with flowers
behind its ears,
& in ninety other poses —
and because it had no eyes
that cat from Abu Ghraib
they put pebbles in the sockets
of its mummified head
which looked out at the world
with a blank stare..
[ based on a New Yorker story on Sabrina Harriman: the woman
behind the camera at Abu Ghraib]
I hate being a cat, she says.
Not that I’m a wuss
But there’s more minuses than pluses
at being someone’s puss.
You have to wait until they’re ready
To get food put into yr bowl
The one you sit behind so patiently
and try not to scowl.
And when they have a friend stay
Then it’s a hey diddle-diddle
You’re no longer alpha female
but playing second fiddle.
I like to go out and in, she says
Or in and out at will
But someone sadly has other ideas
Which is why I’m here still.
Oh I could write a novel, she wails
There’d be fury on every page
Not that I’m a Prima Donna
But I like being centre stage.
It’s a great day to be on the roof. You coming up?
I don’t know, I say. It’s an awfully long way.
Don’t be a wuss! She says.
Watch it, I say.
But she scrambles up, climbing the tiled slopes and disappears.
What’s it like? I call.
Fan—bloody—tastic!! She says. You should see this.
You can tell me about it later, I say. Write me a poem.
The sun climbs towards its zenith, begins it s long slide towards the sea.
I hear nothing till dinner time when I hear plaintive cries.
I let her stew for a while then go out the back, look up.
She’s near the gutter but doesn’t go any further.
What’s wrong? I say.
Get me down, she whimpers.
What’s wrong? You can get up. You can get down.
It’s an awfully long way, she wails.
Who’s a ‘fraidy cat now?
I’m sorry I called you a ‘wuss’, she says.
I reach up, lift her down. She runs straight to her bowl.
What’s the forecast tomorrow? She asks after she’s finished eating.
Overcast with a chance of showers.
Damn! She meows but sounds almost glad.
Hey! Who’s been drinking my wine?
Rosco shrugs his shoulders.
It’s not the first time I’ve noticed the level’s fallen, I say. Do you know anything about this?
I only had a few mouthfuls.
But you’re a cat!
What is this? Can’t a cat be allowed to drink now? The RSPCA would have something to say about that.
Indeed it might but it might not be to your liking.
I thought I had him there.
Well, the top was off.
To let it breathe! Not as an invitation to drink!
Oh.
Drink your own wine, I snap.
I just can’t walk into a bottle shop you know and ask ….
Look, I’ll put a few mouthfuls in your bowl each evening if you must drink.
It’s for medicinal purposes only, you understand and looks up purring with innocence — and hope.
