I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.
— Rudyard Kipling, “The Cat that Walked by Himself”
I can’t imagine owning
a dog. He’s forever
a child: big eyes
looking up, ball dropped
at my feet, panting
drooling tongue, dirty paws
on my jeans, howling and whining
when I go to work.
I can imagine having
a cat. Not a pet. A familiar,
walking by himself
on the catly way.
Sure
we’ll let you
but only if we want it
You can’t seduce us unless we want
to be seduced
You can’t trick or sedate us into it
But once we let you
we let you
without embarrassment
We yowl our longing
purr our bliss
without shame
And when we’ve had
enough of your attentions
or you’ve had enough of ours
we turn away calm
to our catly business
leaving you to yours
On the back verandah
of my soul, where love
and aesthetics meet,
there’s a cat.
He’s not a tame indoor cat,
a felis suburbiensis,
spraying on his Lynx
at the weekends.
My cat’s a wild one,
difficult to love.
Feeding him won’t do it.
He’d rather hunt.
The fur’s lush
around his ragged ears
but his teeth are daggers
and his tongue’s rough.
How shall I earn
the love of this wicked
cat? In which patch of sunshine
shall I find him?
We don’t find them. They
come to us. On the back verandah
of my soul …