Frisky Felines
For Red
His furious yellow eyes sometimes shone mischief from the night before, sometimes shame and the lore of a dozen ladies who one night might be his missus.
Turf wars and kisses, his story doesn't alter and in those days, that wasn't likely. He was an old rag splattered with paint, some parts, stiff and jointy ancient
but bold-handsome still. He hinted of things she knew not of, some parts rough and ragged from his wanderings, he'd drag in at dawn and bring presents to her. Sometimes he'd carry a fake lasso, like a cowboy, but it was really a lovely snake.
He liked to go to his other country, far away in Queen-Anne meadows, bronze and fit for angels, gold and silver with wildflowers, buttercups, and yes his chin was yellow. He'd come home to cream and bacon.
Like that fellow, Errol Flynn, he knew his way around.
Did he snore by the fire, dreaming of his latest conquest?
His heart pounds thinking of the dozens of kittens born
from his gigolo days. He might force them to join a gang.
But in the end, he'd come back to his girl, his two legged kiss-croucher, repay her devotion, defend her dolls.
How many dogs or raccoons did he chase off her steps?
Was it his place to surround her kingdom with his tail?
He was her first real crush, she loved him like a groom.
This striped-yellow lanky-limbed man, he was the best. When he left her, seeking another 4 lives, came home stinking of sex, the girl-child realized he was the one she never could possess.
Two poems by Barbara Crooker
THE IN-AND-OUT-CAT
Oh, this is the tale of the in-and-out cat
She comes in like the wind
and goes out just like that.
When the weather at the backdoor is icy & stormier
She howls at the front door
Where it just might be warmer
This fickle Miss Kitty begs to go out
For adventures are waiting
And mice are about
But five minutes later, whiskers to chin,
Whatever the season, whatever her mood,
She will claw and meow to come in, come in!
PENNY
She wasn't a good cat. Wouldn't let us pick her up
or cuddle on the bed. Sometimes she'd permit
petting, but only if she was in the mood, and on
her own terms. If she was perched on a chair, perhaps
you might approach. But now, at fifteen, she's stopped
eating and drinking, sleeps all day. Instead
of wrestling the white Christmas Teddy, taking him down
to the bottom of the stairs, she's huddled next to him
on the landing. Will even let me sit with her
and stroke her fur. I think she'll slip from us
peacefully, but she's starting to stagger, can't
use the litter box, and her cries are terrible
to hear. So I take her to the vet—the place she hates
most in this world—because what else is there to do?
There'll be no return trip. I hold her in my arms,
a fur-wrapped bag of bones. She's gone beyond fear.
It's not like I'm saying good-bye to a beloved friend—
she's been peeing outside the box for months,
and "Aloof" is her middle name. But she's purring
under my hand, as the vet slips the needle in, murmurs
appropriate clichés. I'm not sure what kind of loss this is—
how can you love what doesn't love you back?—but for the rest
of the day, I wander through the empty rooms, looking
for a trace of orange, glimpse of whisker. For she
was beautiful, and she knew it. No wonder the Egyptians
thought cats were gods. And now, we're left, not bereft,
exactly, but stranded, washed up on some strange shore,
wandering, in the country of the merely ordinary.
from Some Glad Morning
Darby Watches You Wash the Car by Alarie Tennille
(three years after adoption)
“Moo,” he says at the closed window.
“Moo, moo, moo,” like a miniature
cow singing soprano.
What does car washing mean to a cat?
He sees your front end swallowed
by the Prius. If he were frightened,
he’d growl, yowl, or pound
on the glass. Maybe he thinks
you’re petting the car. He won’t call
loud enough for you to hear him,
thinks his love for you
is still a secret.
when she packed a suitcase and left,
so there is a precise exclamation point
down the center of the floor
The minute I crank shut the window
and urge him in from the porch,
the dapper black one hisses like a cobra
Every time I come near his Meow Mix bowl
whether it is empty or full,
the striped one growls in his throat
They like laps and chin-rubs
she told me
They like belly rubs and kisses
she promised
From What the Postcard Didn’t Say
this tiny, fur-covered projectile-
wrapped her biscuit-y paws around my neck-
I knew we were entirely each other's.
I know it now,
when she wanders to the spot that I am weeding,
plops down in the sunny grass to help.
I know it when,
I feel her perched gaze from across the room,
as I search for words to fill the page.
I know it as I find her,
close, but not touching, in a late-night curl,
and we dream together.
I know it while I sing to her,
a secret song only we know, her slow blinks
keeping time to the song that I will sing
until the bright cord that connects our two hearts
is cut.
The Bird Looks into the House of Cats by Marianne Szlyk
One beady eye sees all. Tabbyis dozing on a pile of clothes:
a winter hat, socks, spring sweaters.
In sleep, her cheek nuzzles a book
of a poet’s letters from Brazil.
It’s almost fall. The bright edges
of locust leaves, roots in thin
soil, yellow. Summer’s clouds clear
out, leaving skies free for birds.
The calico guards the kitchen.
Perching on the back of a chair
that, never used for guests,
is just for cats and coats,
she glares at all that cross her path.
The bird now raps on the glass,
his beak a cat’s paw, a fist.
He cocks his sleek head and pretends
that he is ready to fly through
the house of cats. The tabby snores.
The calico will never move.
The bird flies off. He seeks
a seed, a crumb, a drop
of water, open windows where
humans and cats are not.
Note: The tabbies are now gone and Marianne’s and her husband, Ethan Goffman’s house is ruled by their black prince, pictured bellow.
Tyler, I see your cousin slink
from the edge of our neighbor's woods
to the banks of the killing stream.
Cars, buses, and trucks flood the street.
I can't let you out of our house
or give you attics to explore.
Only the window glass between
you and robins you want to kill.
Only the chairs and tables.
Tyler, you are our winter cat,
made for quilts, jeans, and thick sweaters,
not for linen pants and bare skin.
But today you curled at my feet
while the online yoga teacher
told us to breathe just breathe just breathe.
Tyler by Ethan Goffman
In an urban public shelter, “black cats experienced the highest euthanasia and lowest adoption rates, while white cats had the lowest euthanasia and highest adoption rates”—National Library of Medicine
I saw a shadow of a cat
shadow bereft of body
flitting shadow bereft of cat
flitting shadow that is cat
black lightning
in the bottle
that is our house
black lightning that strikes twice in
the same place thrice evermore
night stalking night
the incredible blackness of blackness
black as pitch
black as sin
black as midnight
all speed and muscle and
sinewy strength.
Tyler is guilty
white cat has said so.
Glass knocked over
cricket desiccated on the kitchen floor
chair back shredded
Tyler did it
always already guilty
tried and convicted
the unbearable blackness of guilt
guilty as the setting sun.
shadow of cat
dancing down the halls
prancing on couch and chairs
silhouetted
at the picture window
in early mornings
at dusk
disappearing
in the dark of night.
Sometimes in the coal black
a pair of green eyes stares at me
disappears.
Tyler
shadow dashing across dark
is the night
is Tyler who stole the sun
engulfed in blackness.
Tyler is
the shadow of a cat
is Tyler
is guilty.
One guilt-drenched dream
after another, till finally
near dawn, hope
in the form of a silver tabby,
half-starved and keening,
an entreaty so constant and pitiful,
what could I do but let him in?
first appeared on Clementine Poetry Journal
Growing up in Montana,
I wanted to be pure and serene
as the stray white cat we named Salt
and as feisty and fearless
as the black and white fox terrier
we named Pepper who took on dogs
twice his size. We always
managed to break up the fights
and save Pepper. But this time
no one can pry the jaws of death
of Smokey my cousin’s black and white
shepherd from Pepper’s neck. We use
a rake and body power and finally spray
water from the hose, and still
Smokey won’t let go until Salt
slips through the open screen door
and hops on Smokey’s back, digging
her claws like spurs and rides
him like a bucking bronc up the street.
The entire neighborhood is cheering
and clapping like they are at the rodeo.
When Salt, satisfied she’d saved the day,
bails off the back of the yowling Smokey,
Pepper chases her into the house
and side by side they sit at the dinner table
begging for scraps as we sprinkle salt
and pepper on our meat and potatoes
and I wonder if we should rename
our pets Ginger and Nutmeg.
From My Grandfather is a Cowboy
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