Some people have cats thrust upon them.

None of ours were chosen. We were the chosen.

As soon as one departs,

Another, alerted on the feline internet

Of a vacancy in a good home,

Comes to replace.

There is no doubt these are sentient beings

With the power of thought.

Each an individual,

With, if ever such a thing exists,

A Soul.

Bumble huffed and stood in a corner at a hint of cigarette smoke.

Maurice peed in a cot to protest at a party.

Zoltan, alarming, fanged, black head at the night window, but a cry-baby.

Raffish Monty pleasured glamorous twin slipper babes in his penthouse.

Lucy started feral and became a laptop.

Buster, as a kitten, hissed and spat, and protected his siblings

And settled into his comfortable overcoat.

Mimi, a foxy-coloured lemur confident from the start.

Sammy, languorous, luxurious, leopard, craving affection, scourge of magpies.

They all follow us in a howling line whenever we go out.

Monty would have made a fatty, goosey kind of roast.

Buster plump enough for a cassoulet to sustain us through a week.

Less meat on the girls but see them as a brace of quails.

Sammy’s the longest, could be jointed and barbecued.

Trouble is,

Once we’ve eaten them that’s it.

You can’t have your cat and eat it.


The ecology here

Has been rent by our cats.

Disemboweled rats,

Wings of birds,

Headless rabbits,

Dead bats,

Litter our grounds.

Doctor Death am I.

I have to kill a shivering shrew

To end its pain

And see its naked tiny liver

Just like mine

In miniature.

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