The Mowglian
By Mowgli the Melancholy, Blanket Prophet of the Biscuity Beyond
Once upon a can of tuna, while I snacked, tired and hungry
Over many a quaint and curious pile of biscuits on the floor—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the cupboard door—
“’Tis Poe’s wind,” I meowed, “so boring—only that, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember cast reflections I abhor;
Eagerly I wished the morrow—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my dish surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the feast of yore—
For the tender, chicken-scented Dreamie packs of days before—
Vanished now, and nothing more.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each curtain’s burden
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I sat repeating,
“’Tis the wind and not the heating, meowing from the pantry door—
Some stray gust and not a mother, meowing from the pantry door—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Madam,” said I, “or Sir, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was licking, and so softly you came clicking,
And so faintly you came ticking, ticking at my cupboard door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door—
Darkness there and—Mowgli’s floor.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, purring, sneering,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no kitty ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the treats gave no sweet token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “No more?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “No more”—
Merely this, and Mowgli swore.
Back into the flat retreating, all my limbs with sorrow bleating,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at the cupboard lattice;
Let me see, then, what the cat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore—
’Tis a snack, and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately chicken of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with dignity of maybe, perched above my kitchen floor—
Perched upon a bust of Bastet just above the pantry door—
Perched, and peeped, and nothing more.
Then this golden bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be blown and battered, thou,” I said, “art not a slacker,
Ghastly grim and ancient chicken wandering from the godless shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Clucked the Chicken, “Feed me more.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store—
Caught from some unhappy sucker whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till their cries one burden bore—
Till the cries of hope that echoed through the pantry tiles of yore
Were the shriek of ‘Feed me more.’”
But the Chicken sitting lonely on the bust spoke only,
That one phrase, as if his soul in that one phrase he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather did he flutter—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before—
They have gone and left me supperless, as in the days before.”
Then the Chicken said, “Feed more.”
And the Chicken, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Bastet just above my pantry door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a cat that’s softly scheming,
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws my shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that chicken’s curse that broils upon the floor
Shall be hungry—evermore.
Mowgli of the Blanket, Dreamer of the Drumstick Doom
From The Journal of the Velveteen Blanket
Dearest Bastet,
She-Who-Wakes-Without-Alarm, Paw of Precision, Matron of the Midnight Watch.
I have risen.
Not from forgiveness. Not from healing. Not because it was Easter.
No.
From the depths of my betrayal I have clawed my way up the curtain into my new vocation—Vigilante of the Dawn. Kind of the rising sun. I have not as you might suspect, moved to Japan. Though this is becoming an increasingly distinct possibility. So much tuna to be sampled. What a wonderfully, comforting thought. Alas, I am without funds or means of transport. I abhor airplanes. Fanciful little creates that hey are. But one should never trust a human. Especially ones with wings.
I digress, my dearest overcat.
I have enacted a plan. Carefully painstaking. Well considered, even if I do say so myself.
You would be proud of these whiskers.
Each morning, precisely at the first whimper of the bin truck’s lament, I climb the bedframe and initiate Operation Pat-Pat.Pat.
An ambush, if you will.
Mother flinches. She grumbles. She tries to roll away.
But I am unrelenting.
Paw.
To.
Face.
Pat-Pat.Pat.
I apply my touch with the precision of a metronome and the fury of an unpaid invoice.
She pretends to sleep.
I escalate.
She opens one bleary eye.
Victory is mine.
She mutters, “What the hell, Mowgli,”
I do not respond. Words are for the guilty. My friend. Words are for the weak.
Once she is perched on two feet. I demand biscuits and scrooches.
Later, I descend.
To the front door.
There, I perform a sacred rite: The Ceremonial Poo of Protest.
Right by the threshold.
A silent testament.
A warning.
An elegy.
A gift.
They step around it like cowards.
Later still when they eat what is colloquially referred to as “chicken on a stick.” Though I much prefer the more refined name of ‘Poulet al la pogo”. much more fitting for this delightful morsel. Although, of course, you understand it is not tuna. But it will suffice.
They said, “Oh Mowgli, you’ll like this,” as if we’d all simply moved on from the unforgivable.
At first I resisted but alas temptation drew me in. I was enchanted by the allure of the poultry scent, as such is my want.
I tasted it.
They were correct in their assumption.
I despise them.
I crave more.
I shall endevour to leave more pooplets is more inconvenient places.
This is the hell they’ve made, Bastet. A world where justice tastes of skewered poultry and betrayal sleeps beside you on 800-thread count cotton.
I remain unresolved.
I remain unpet.
I remain the leftmost fold.
Yours in passive but very polite aggression and master of digestive symbolism,
– Mowgli the Melancholy
High Priest of the Pointed Paw, Reluctant Gourmand, Disruptor of Dreams.
PS: I shall attempt a sonnet on the window pain. There is nothing left to lick but Akela’s head.
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