A Verse if you will:
Entitled: The Clawland: The Blanket on the Bed
By Mowgli the Melancholy, Blanket Philosopher, and self-anointed critic of Modernist litter tray design
April is the cruellest month, bringing*
Cruel fleas out from sleep, breeding
Memory and catnip, mixing
Dull fur with springtime static.
Winter kept it quiet (ish), covering
Poe in blankets, sleeping—
A respite with silent dreams.
Mother surprised us, wielding a boisterous puppy,
With a drum of fat paws and a foghorn bark—
That goes on incessantly into the bleak night.
Ich bin überhaupt kein Hund, ich komme aus Catopia, eigentlich eine Katze.
I paws upon the carpet, and sleep through the day,
And dream of sardines, and Tuna, with a T so tall,
That even the gods of catnip bow before it.
What are the claws that clutch, what filth mews from this mulch,
Feline, my jaws aching with want?
(I shall show you fear in a day full of Poe.)
*Borrowed from the mighty Modernist Sir TS Eliot.
From The Journal of the Velveteen Blanket
Dearest Bastet,
My only true friend and ador’d idol. My muse of afloofness and elegance. She-Who-Never-Drooled.
It is with trembling paw that I write to you today, having survived yet another sunrise in this canine-occupied territory. The puppy remains, unwavering in its nodding idiocy. It bounces with reckless abandon—a sugar-high storm in fur—wielding joy like a blunt instrument poised for destruction.
There is no safe corner. No sacred blanket. Even the wardrobe groans in dismay. How can this creature continue so incessantly, in such vain? I have tried with all my wilting fur to comprehend. Alas! Dear, Bastet, I have failed.
It has sniffed me.
Attempted to place its drooling tongue upon my freshly conditioned fur.
This morning, it licked the air beside my head. Fiend!
Mother said it was “cute.” But I rather believe it was a declaration of war.
The thing has no concept of reality. Rather stupideer than a court jester, I would be so bold to say. Yes—I, quiet, unassuming, dignified—but even the end of a tether comes for the best of us.
I feel my soul tremble every time it passes wind and looks surprised by it.
It runs in circles, chasing nothing, like some kind of existential metaphor I refuse to dignify.
I am on my paws, dear Bastet. Done for want of a more fitting lexical phenomenon.
Once, I was a philosopher. A thinker. A blanket-dwelling prophet.
Now, I am a refugee—hiding behind laundry baskets, paw-deep in Poe’s discarded fur, forced to beg for biscuits on the kitchen table like a pauper.
It is unbecoming of a feline such as I.
I refuse to be reduced to a common playmate.
I shall not fetch.
I shall not roll over.
I shall not wag.
Wag? What is this wag of which the humans find such delight?
An involuntary reflex of a mutt without dignity. Without grace.
I shall not stoop so low. I shall recline. I shall stare. I shall prepare for the worst of times to come. Lo! They are upon us, my goddess. I shall take small solace in my dreams of a world where dogs are banned and tuna is currency. For it is all that I have left to remind that there was once beauty in this world.
Oh Bastet, grant me strength. Or at least an open window from which to leap to my salvation (onto the patio pillow, you understand of course — I am not insane yet). Though what day may follow I can no longer predict. My routine, my days stretched before in blanket comfort and behind me. Oh! Oh! The joy of the predictable, so cruelly stolen.
Purrs, profound betrayal, and static-charged dismay,
Yours pawingly,
– Your dear Mowgli, Servant of None, Philosopher of the Blanket Realms
PS: If the dog urinates on my scratching post again, I shall regretfully invoke the old rites.
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