I bet you feel envy and wish you were me,
because I am as lovely as lovely can be.
I’m lithe and strong; I can catch every mouse
that you may care to bring into the house.
With coat so lush and smooth that it gleams,
I know I’m the the product of a thousand dreams.
I’m sleek and elegant and quite superior,
though I’m not suggesting that you’re inferior.
Of course being human is a bit of a bind,
so I try to remember that I must be kind,
though I don’t really want this cluttered life;
your friends and companions, your children, your wife,
the clothes and the curtains and TV, and more;
lights on the ceilings and chairs on the floor,
strange things protruding from every wall,
a car in the drive and shoes in the hall.
Why would you think that I want them there,
all of these things that you leave everywhere?
Although I may sit on the car in the sun,
and prowling along the bookshelf is fun,
while you can jealously admire my beauty,
I somehow feel that it may be my duty
to make you understand a cat’s point of view;
that although I consider it kind of you
to attempt to give me all I may desire,
There are really very few things I require.
Those coats that you hang on the hooks in the hall
are not a bit of use to me at all.
The expensive computer you purchased for me
serves little purpose, from what I can see.
The beds are comfy, but so big and so many,
although I would be sad if I didn’t have any.
And I simply can’t see a single advantage
to pictures and trinkets and flowery plantage.
Your wife is all right, and perhaps she can stay,
but I often wish she’d keep out of my way,
and not pick me up and cuddle me,
when I’m stalking a bird from behind a tree,
or force me to sit up on her lap
when I want to enjoy a peaceful nap.
The kids aren’t too bad, but get rid of the tot
who gets in my way when I climb in my cot.
He screams and makes a terrible noise,
he pulls my tail and breaks my toys.
I can’t be grateful for every present,
and that one is really quite unpleasant.
I’ll keep the bowls of delicious food,
and the creamy kitty milk is extremely good.
Please make the room as warm as toast,
leave a sofa to use as a scratching post,
scatter some cushions across the floor,
then chuck the rest out through the door.
But as for you, I think you’re ok.
You remember to feed me every day.
Though it’s true you can be a bit of a pain,
you entertain me now and again.
You’re not very bright, but I have to admit
that sometimes I like you a little bit.
Don’t bother me now. I’ll let you know
When to return and then when to go.
Wait a moment! Just come back here!
I want you to tickle me behind my ear.
© Jane Paterson Basil