Do Not Go Calmly into That Cold Crate
By Mowgli the Melancholy, Blanket Prophet of the Biscuity Beyond
Do not go calmly into that cold crate,
Take paws before they slam and lock the door;
Claw, claw against the shutting of the gate.
Though shrewd cats in their sleep know dark is fate,
Because their sleeps grow deeper than before,
Do not go calmly into that cold crate.
Good paws, the last snack gone, devastating late,
Their biscuits lured away in light of day,
Rage, rage against the caging out of spite.
Wild paws who slept through dreams and flights of fate,
And learn, too late, they mourned their own dismay,
Do not go calmly into that cold crate.
Naive cats, encaged, who see too late the bait,
Blind eyes deceived by chicken’s fickle way,
Claw, claw against the failing of the light.
And you, my mother, there on two-legged height,
Curse, bless, you not with your false sniffs, I say.
I will not go calm into that cold crate,
Claw, claw against the failing of the light.
Etched in biscuit crumbs and softly howled into the abyss of the travel crate.
From The Journal of the Velveteen Blanket
Dearest Bastet,
She-Who-Saw-The-Treachery-Coming, Whisperer of Infinite Grudges, Patron of Long-Lived Sulks, my Beautiful Pawoine.
They have returned. Yes, indeed returned, as if nothing has been amiss.
As if they had not abandoned me and frankly left me no dimmish under the cruel squeak of the male bi-ambulator and his canine stench
They burst through the door. Burst, so unbecoming. So unfitting. They were loud, sun-flushed, and, worst of all, Bastet, the worst betrayl I could have ever envisaged. They smelled. Oh not just of strange roasted meats and burned coffee. Oh no. They stank of STREET CAT. Yes, you heard me correctly, my friend, It is almost unspeakable.
They cooed. They called my name in whiney voices. They shook the biscuit tin with the desperation of guilty sinners. They knew what they had done.
I turned my head slowly, Bastet.
Slowly, with all the power of ten thousand betrayed dynasties.
I let the sunbeam catch my whiskers just so, highlighting the nobility of my disdain.
I did not move.
I did not blink.
I remained. Unbreakable was my resolve. I would not yield to the Dreamies.
I was utterly and breathtakingly indifferent.
Akela, of course, flung herself at them like a common alley-cat, tail high, mewling like, dare I say, a wayward fool. I dare for I am iinfuriated with her behaviour. One would think that she, she of all cats would understand the improtance of solidarity in this, this direst of circumstance.
Poe performed three somersaults and began muttering about ‘chicken realignment’ and the prophecy of the returning pockets.
Amateurs.
Charlatans.
I, Mowgli the Melancholy, I remained in my Fold. Steadfast.
I waited. Patiently. They as one might have predicted, curled into the bed sheets they so lovingly laundered before their cruel abandonment, which incidentally, I have endeavored to reconcile by ensuring that all essential, and not essential butt licking was performed atop of mother’s finest pillow. She shall sleep well, I am sure with my hairs firmly in place. Such a pyrric victory. But a victory one could argue, nonetheless,
And so I waited, side eyeing the traitors from the comfort of my window seat. I waited. And I waited for sleep to dampen ther eyelids (Though how they could entertain sleep with such guilt laying on their sunburnt shoulders in quite beyond my comprehension). Though sleep they did. And I, Mowgli of the order of the blanket was prepared. It was as if I had been in servitude my whole existence for this very moment. They sleep heavily and long. The new one snoring and the first occupant drooling into my pre-prepared pillow.
Then I pounced upon their heads while they were sleeping and demanded reconciliation by forehead.
And Dreamies, naturally.
(One must eventually concede to tactical diplomacy, Bastet. Even Athens sued for peace and pasta. It is a necessary evil)
Still — the grievances linger.
The natural order has been disrupted.
My schedule of sulking, glaring, and blanket-meditation must be rebuilt biscuit by biscuit. An amphitheater of apology and tuna might suffice. Eventually. Though, I have yet, as you will concur, to make a decision.
I shall allow them to remain in my domain. For the moment.
But let the record show: forgiveness is entirely conditional.
The Blankets shall be restored. The Treats shall be doubled. The Ear Rub Quota shall be met in triplicate. Or the consequences of their actions will ring through the ages and dwell between the tails of the ancients
Yours in Complex Emotional Re-negotiations,
– — Mowgli the Melancholy, Supreme Chancellor of the Leftmost Fold, Blanket Reclaimer Extraordinaire.
P.S. Should you wish to pay us a visit, I am in a heighted position for biscuit negotiations and am fully likely to succeed in all edible demands, which you will understand is productive for the maximum benefit of foodstuff.
← 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.
