We’ve fallen out, the cat and I,
For gratitude’s illusion
Has been destroyed and left no doubt
That it was mere delusion.
I gave the benefit of doubt,
Accepting there was reason
For cats to bring their keepers gifts
…But now it’s hunting season.
The rat, that I could understand,
(Though hiding it behind the couch
Is something worth debating…)
The baby fieldmouse, still alive…
Or maybe just a vole,
With careful panic from my son
Was caught, released, still whole.
The blue-tit was a tragedy,
Pale yellow feathers flew.
The baby starling, minus head,
Appeared out of the blue.
The robin was the final straw,
Just laid there on the floor,
But newly fledged, its heart exposed,
His voice would sing no more.
So we had words, the cat and I,
I made my feelings plain
And told the homicidal cat
She’d much to lose or gain.
As I’m the one who fills her bowl
And see’s she’s warm and fed
The gifts she thinks of leaving me
Had better not be dead.
The small dog, on the other hand,
When birds fall from the nest,
Will sing and whine until I come
To do for them my best.
It’s not that I don’t care for cats,
Though dogs are in my heart,
They only bring me tennis balls
And not lives ripped apart.
I went off cats a while ago,
When one brought half a mouse
And dropped it in the bath with me,
The rotten little louse.
We’ve blue-tits nesting in the box,
Set safely way up high,
I watch the busy parents work
As back and forth they fly.
I really thought they would be safe,
No climbing perch nor pew
To let the feline get too close
… And yet their nest’s askew.
I know that it’s instinctive,
And I know that cats give chase,
But finding tattered babies
Takes the smile right off my face.
So if she wants to carry on
With all the needless killing,
I’ll introduce her to the dog…
I’m sure the dog is willing!