This morning I looked out upon the yard,
From up the second floor, from o’er the sink,
To see the cat that every morning slinks
And sleeps upon our glider, features hard,
But fat around the waist, gray striped with white;
“He’s eating somewhere,” to each o’er we say.
We guess he helps to keep the mice away,
And anyway the kids enjoy the sight.
We bought this place as-is, the boiler died
On Christmas Eve with grandma in the den;
We’ve painted rooms and painted them again,
“We’re keeping out the elements,” we sighed.
“Just bring it in,” our friends entreaty us;
It’s cold, its life is hard, this is a sign.
“Give him a name,” cajole they from online,
His manifestation cutely devious.
He craps in all the flower beds, in the grasses;
He digs the marigolds before they thrive.
We built a fence, yet easy he trespasses;
He’ll give the girls diseases, give us hives.
We bought a house, and with that comes its taxes;
The cost to keep the elements alive.
We started noticing this gray cat on our glider last summer. I thought it might be a pregnant mama nesting. But, no. Just a stray who found a comfy cushion in a sunbeam.
People tell me the poop is good for the flowers, but I don’t know. Of course I know about the horticultural benefits of other animals’ poops. But cat waste is so rancid. I can’t imagine it doing any living thing any good.
Anyway, you buy a house, sometimes you get cats outside.
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Thanks for reading.
This is Phil.