Bad Kitty

Last week, I was challenged to write about the bodily functions of cats, how they conflict with our mental well-being. You folks who plod into the morning, barefoot and bleary-eyed, understand this, deal with the weekly trauma of stepping onto something cold and squishy, something your cat left special just for you, left obviously in your path to the coffee pot. Cats are excellent observers.

For those who do not have cats and are considering getting one, beware my friends, beware.


Scenes From The Litter Box

I hear it... blahp, blahp,
BLAHHH...
kitty puke on the floor,
somewhere.

Sometimes I find it
in the dark.
I don't like finding it.

Kitty thinks I should get up at 5am
to feed her,
tell her how pretty she is.
Bratty cat.
She has technique:
sit by face- stare,
scratch furniture- stare,
rattle blinds with claw,
get claw stuck in blinds
till human gets out of bed.
Except, this time, I went back to bed.
It's 5am.

It is very quiet now.
Too quiet.
Maybe she's tired of her game
and that sausage roll of puke-slimed hair is a trap.
I'll slip and fall.
crack open my head.
She'll have a nice supply of meat,
till she has to figure out
how to open the door.

I think I hear my keys jingling.