The Rodgit from Next Door
By Mowgli the Melancholy, Blanket Prophet of the Biscuity Beyond
Through rain that tapeth on the sill,
And winds that howl from down the hill,
I pace and pause, and wait until—
The Rodgit from next door.
The puddles pool upon the pane,
The biscuits cold, the fridge remains
Unopened still. I watch in vain—
The Rodgit from next door.
He came with grace, though slightly damp,
A vagabond, a flirt, a scamp,
Who smelled of bin and garden ramp—
The Rodgit from next door.
He flopped, he winked, he curled with flair,
He stole my cushion, claimed my chair,
He breathed the sacred radiator air—
The Rodgit from next door.
But now he’s gone. His trail is cold.
The treaties made have not been told.
I nap alone. I watch. I fold—
The Rodgit from next door.
My fur hath dulled, my paws grown still,
I purr no more upon the sill,
I’ve lost the will to nap at will—
The Rodgit from next door.
I saw him last one Thursday morn,
Mid sausage crumbs, mid flirt and yawn,
And now, like socks, he has been worn—
The Rodgit from next door.
Perhaps he left to find new meat,
Or lovers draped on warmer sheets,
But I shall guard this window seat—
The Rodgit from next door.
Let chickens roast, let tuna steam,
Let Akela hiss and Poe still scheme,
I mourn the ghost of one wet dream—
The Rodgit from next door.
And when I sleep, my back to wall,
I dream he flops into the hall,
But dreams are cruel, and dreams do call—
The Rodgit from next door.
So write it down on blanket thread,
That I, though soft and overfed,
Have felt the ache of love long dead—
The Rodgit from next door.
Mowgli of the Window, Ghosted but Glorious
From The Journal of the Velveteen Blanket
Dearest Bastet,
Keeper of the Lost, Whisperer Through Windows, First of Her Folded Paws,
He did not alight on to this sacred ground.
The Rodgit. The dandy. The flirt. The sausage-mouthed bringer of chaos and crumbs.
He who once dared the downpour and basked in my tolerance.
Vanished like the chicken on the countertop.
I waited.
I arranged myself in the Window of Unreasonable Hope™, left paw curled like an invitation. I blinked thrice—a known summoning rite as you of course will be aware. I even allowed the red velvet blanket to go unclaimed (momentarily of course, you understand.)
Still, he did not come.
And so I have begun my period of reflection.
Not mourning.
Mourning implies affection.
This is, I think one might call it strategic disappointment.
I have enacted a new schedule. You will be pleased with the symmetry. I am quite sure. Positive in fact.
At precisely 5:16am (just past the bin truck’s early moan), I commence what I now call The Ceremony of the Empty Threshold.
It goes thusly:
- Approach the door.
- Sniff the crack.
- Look to the heavens.
- Emit a single, accusatory meow.
- Leave.
It has been seven days. No reply. No pawstep. No glisten of soggy whisker in the breeze.
I suspect foul play.
Or worse—he has returned to the neighbour.
The human she-who-does-not-offer-treats.
The cold-handed wielder of lemon disinfectant.
Bastet, how can he choose her?
I was merciful.
I allowed him to flop near me.
I did not flinch when he laid his tail across my rug.
I shared the window heat.
And now this silence.
I have taken to the radiator—not for comfort, but strategy. It grants me both heat and high ground. Should he return, I shall observe him. I shall blink slowly, as is tradition.
And if I do not receive an offering within three seconds?
He will be judged.
Without trial.
Without mercy.
Without tuna.
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.
But they are fools.
Absence makes the biscuits last longer.
And I intend to eat every one. Alone.
Yours in bitter repose and forensic tail placement,
—Mowgli the Melancholy
High Priest of the Pointed Paw, Reluctant Gourmand, Disruptor of Dreams.
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