Cats and Wives

My cat loves me but swipes with razor claws 
so people say I should give him away because
he sometimes hooks one in me. It's scary,
granted, and painful to watch a thin line of red 
open up along my arm or leg. You rat for a cat!
Once again you've done your master harm.

But those same people who say give him away
don't see him rubbing my shins at 4 a.m. when 
my feet hit the floor and here comes Buddy Boy
with steady tread and so happy to see me again!

Then he sits on my chest purring and splays
two white paws with ten sharp claws that
very softly begin kneading me, each claw
a pinprick of a veiled and potential threat
hinting at a deep gash and blood flowing red.

Instead, I delight in watching him purring
and loving and kneading me. And sure,
that rascal melts my butter when he looks 
me in the eyes and says: "You trust me 
not to rip your heart out, don't you?"

You bet your horse, and your ass, that I,
thinking of consequences, gulp and say yes!

Now, wise men say truth hurts but it's love
that sets you free. I ponder this as my cat sits 
idly on me, loving and kneading me,
purring and smiting me just as you sit idly

on my heart, purring and smiting me,
loving and needing me, pinpricking me
with your claws, saying: "You trust me
not to rip your heart out, don't you?
And again -- I gulp and say yes!

Now, Eckhart Tolle says he's known
a few Zen masters -- all of them cats.
Interesting. I think my little boy, whom
I found as a kitten trembling and starving
under a car, isn't into Zen. I think he favors paws,
claws and mice -- not meditation. And you my dear?
You're a woman. An enigma. A complete mystery.

I know little about cats. Even less about women.


 

 

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