Ears swivel independently of the rest of the body,
Twin radar dishes.
With his brown, bushy tail clutched protectively
Under one white paw, claws extended,
Fat Man sits half awake with a snarl on his face.
His blanket isn’t straightened.
The tuna in his dish isn’t fresh,
And he is still mad at me for taking him to the vet and having
His puffy, infected, left incisor removed.
Never mind his face bulged like a kitty-cat version
Of Marlon Brando in The Godfather.
Never mind the pain is gone.
I still get the blame.
In another hour
His rest-cycle will finish and the meowing will begin.
I’d like to have a short nap before dinner, but
He’ll want out.
Never mind that two seconds later
He’ll want in.
Indoor cats are too skittish outdoors, especially
Half Persian ones who scamper back
In wide-eyed horror
From grasshoppers who refuse to die
After having their legs bitten off.
Once out the door, he will perform a little dance,
In, Out, In, Out,
Like someone who has found the shower a bit too cold.
The grass calls to him
Unfailingly, inexorably, just as certainly as he
Understands the tolerance that I have for sound,
And the lengths to which he must go to convey
His great need.