A Verse if You Will:
Entitled: IF— You Can Paws by Mowgli the Melancholy
(with mildest apologies to Mr Kipling, and none at all, whatsoever, to the dog)
If you can keep your purrs when all about you
Are losing theirs and meowing all at you,
If you can lick your paws when all cats nag you,
But make blanket for their nagging too;
If you can sleep and not be tired by sleeping,
Or being treat malign’d, don’t deal in theft,
Or being bated, don’t give way to batting,
And yet don’t look too strong, nor growl too much:
If you can dream—and not make rats your master;
If you can eat—and not make food your aim;
If you can meet with Biscuits and Tuna Pasta
And treat those two nuggets just the same;
If you can bear to share the packet you’ve broken
Twisted by Poe to make a trap for Akela,
Or watch the tuna you gave your life to, eaten,
And bow and comfort up with gentle licks:
If you can make one heap of all your Dreamies™
And leave one out for the stray across,
And nudge, and share your hard-clawed winnings
And never yowl a shriek about your deed;
If you can force your paw and nose and continue
To snooze your turn long after chicken’s gone,
And so snore on when there is no morsel for you
Except momma who says: ‘Mogs, come on!’
If you can wake with honour and keep your fur clean,
Or walk with pedigrees—nor lose the begging strays,
If neither claws nor loving pats can hurt you,
If all cats snooze with you, but some do clutch;
If you can turn from an unforgiving toot
Within sixty seconds’ distance should have run,
Yours is the Bowland and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Cat, my floof!
From The Journal of the Velveteen Blanket
Dearest Bastet (She-Who-Sees-But-Judges-Not, Matron of Mysteries, Silken-Eared One of divine catdom.)
The usurper is gone. Taken by the giant human and his squeaky sidekick. The great stomping ignoramus has finally retreated, carted off with all the pomp and drool befitting such a beast. I watched, serenely, from the windowsill, out of reach of course, you understand why, from the Bi-ambulators. I did not smile, unbecoming of course. But my tail may have betrayed me somewhat. The dastardly thing flicked in a kind of involuntary motion. It moved accidentally. How utterly embarrassing, I have to say. Though I do feel that disaster was averted as I was quite out of the fray, and honestly, they were all rather, how to say, otherwise engaged with the drool. A fortunate turn of events.
I digress. I shall contiue int he same vain. From that which I began previously.
Peace, I thought, would follow.
Alas.
Akela, the great Tuna Tragedienne of our time, has taken the dog’s place.
She has claimed the bed. My bed.
The sacred, crumpled temple of fleece and foot-scented comfort.
She says it is “a reclamation.” I say it is an occupation. Though I can hardly go to battle over such trivialities. Plus, I cannot bear the thought of the ensuing wailing should I be successful in my attempt to lay claim to my rightful property.
And so, I shall wait. Dignified. Calmly as we English must. If only there were a queue I could stand in. There is no justice, only hierarchy. She is large, she is warm, she is convinced the world owes her not just affection, but the good portion of the duvet.
I tried negotiation. I tried clawless nudges. I tried—gods forgive me—whisker diplomacy.
She licked my nose and said in that disdainful way she has, “Oh sweetheart, you can lick my ears if you would like’.
Bastet, I nearly ascended on the spot.
Infuriating to say the very leastbut nonetheless I did partake, mainly, you understand, because I cannot tolerate the noise she makes when denied.
As if this were not enough, there is a chicken in the garden.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. No, no. This is not a catspearian chicken. Its a real one.
Clucking. Wandering. Taunting. An actual chicken.
Mother says it is “just visiting.” I do not believe in coincidence.
A chicken ‘just’ hoping on over into our land.
Is it bait? A test? Is this, perhaps, the reincarnation of the dog in feathered disguise?
I spend long hours watching it. It watches back.
We are locked in a polite yet murderous stalemate.
I have begun to compose a thesis on the matter, tentatively titled On the Ethics of Poultry Surveillance in Post-Canine Societies, though I do rather think that the title may alienate reader somewhat so I may well have to pad on back to the old clawing board.
My appetite, naturally, remains unimpaired.
Grant me patience, oh Bastet, as my days descend further into this slapstick purgatory. I feel like an extra in one of those bi-ambulator sitcoms- watching the tragedy of ineptitude unfold and being helpless to prevent it.
For no, in this moment, I do not know what tomorrow brings—but I shall meet it with dignity. Or, failing that, I might stoop to a strategic hairball beneath Akela’s slumbering head.
Yours in restrained vengeance and reluctant cohabitation,
– Your once beloved Mowgli the Melancholy, Former Philosopher, Current Occupant of the Leftmost Fold.
PS: The chicken has now entered the herb bed. I shall take this as a personal attack to the feline order.
← Back to The Kitty Chronicles
If this resonated, share it on Bluesky (or anywhere folks still have an attention span longer than a moth after a sleepless night), leave us a comment, or check out our latest anthologies
Poetry Collection, ‘Is this all we get?’
Prose Collection, ‘ Fifth Avenue Pizza’
Discover more from River and Celia Underland
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
