You get a wife, you get a house,
Eventually you get a mouse.
You get some words regarding mice,
You get a kitty in a trice.
By two a.m. or thereabouts,
The mouse is in, the cat is out.
It dawns upon you, in your cot,
The mouse is silent, the cat is not.
Instead of kitty, says your spouse,
You should have got another mouse.
– Ogden Nash
Scholar Chang Tuan was fond of cats,
And had seven of them,
Wonderful beasts with wonderful names.
They were:
Guardian of the East
White Phoenix
Purple Blossom
Drive-Away-Vexation
Brocade Sash
Cloud Pattern
Ten Thousand Strings of Cash
Each was worth several pieces of gold,
And nothing could persuade Chang
To part with them.
— Wang Chih (c. 1100 C.E.)
My boy is now over two years old! I thought it would be fun to write an annual diary entry documenting Charlie’s past year. He’s not much of a scribbler, but I’m sure he’s fine with me stepping in as his ghostwriter while he pursues far more important matters, like a nap.
by Francis Witham
Oh, what unhappy twist of fate
Has brought you, homeless to my gate?
The gate where once another stood
To beg for shelter, warmth and food.
For from that day I ceased to be
The master of my destiny.
While he, with purr and velvet paw
Became within my house, The Law.
He scratched the furniture and shed
And claimed the middle of my bed.
He ruled in arrogance and pride
And broke my heart the day he died.
So if you really think, oh cat,
I’d willingly relive all that
Because you come, forlorn and thin
Well… don’t just stand there… come on in!
by B. Hayes
You’ve torn the daily paper
Into a million shreds
And tested the comfort
Of all the beds.
Chased my wool
All over the floor
Hissed and spat
At the dog next door,
And proved yourself
So brave and bold
For a tiny kitten
Only six weeks old.
You’re now a black
Little fluffy ball
Curled up tight
Asleep in the hall.
“Holding this soft, small living creature in my lap this way, though, and seeing how it slept with complete trust in me, I felt a warm rush in my chest. I put my hand on the cat’s chest and felt his heart beating. The pulse was faint and fast, but his heart, like mine, was ticking off the time allotted to his small body with all the restless earnestness of my own.” The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
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