I am sorry,
but if there is one creature
hanging off of the Great Chain of Being
that needs its branch pruned
it is the Felis Catus.
I will never be able to look into the eyes
of a demon no bigger than a breadbox
and coo at its saliva spewing in my face,
simply for entering the room.
Always deserving, always proud,
these creatures have evolved since
the charming days, long gone,
in which I imagine some pioneer girl
praising young Socks for catching a mouse by the tail,
still wiggling as it dangles from it's capturer's jaw.
No, the cats of today have advanced with us.
Either due to the limited mouse supply
or that we lavish them with treats
because, as the cat could so plainly tell you,
they deserve them.
The cat of today announces her presence
with a moan of impatience or a hiss of warning
in situations as common as turning the corner.
An independent artist, the cat cannot work
with your shadow lurking in the kitchen
by the coffee pot, nervously trying to start your day.
You peak over the fruit bowl to see if
there is any sad chance that you could
eat your breakfast at the table, this time.
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