Fiona's Cat Speaks

[Gyppo]

Many years ago on a long lost writing circle (MWC) there was a young lady called 
Fiona.  She had a cat which spent hours waiting patiently by a mouse 
hole where the oh-so-clever humans knew there hadn't been a mouse in  years.  The cat also walked up and down her keyboard at times.

She thought it was crazy.  I thought perhaps not.

I've found a poem I wrote about this cat.  I wonder if it still 
watches the hole?

=====

Fiona's Cat Speaks...

It's good being a cat.
Most of the time.
I get fed just for being there.
Cuddled just for being there.
Stroked just for being there.
All I have to do is make
that silly noise the humans like
to hear and they do almost anything
for me, just because I'm there.

I can sit by an empty mouse hole for hours,
where I know there's not been
a mouse in years.  I can think
about Kant and Heidegger,
ponder Sartre and Neitsche
until the cows come home
(whatever they are) and my 
humans will say "Good Cat.
You're such a patient hunter."

Patience my arse!  We get bored too
which is why I sit on your lap
and pop my head up in front
of that glowing thing you stare
at for hours.  The human equivalent
to a empty mouse hole perhaps?
And by the way, that hard and tasteless
plastic thing you call a mouse
is bloody useless.  It doesn't wriggle!

But I like the flickering colours
when you squeeze your so-called mouse,
and the black patterns that grow and vanish
when you go crazy and savage the clicky thing
in front of you with your curious blunt claws.
And I like the times you fall asleep
in the night hours, when I slip off your lap
and walk up and down the clicky thing
making my own black patterns.

Oh, I love it when you fall asleep,
subconsciously stroking my fur
and dreaming of God knows what.
Purring softly with your head on the table,
twitching as you stalk the mighty metaphor,
crunching characters as they try to escape,
mouthing names which mean nothing
to me, but clearly something to you.
But you look happy, so I let you sleep.

In return for all this I try, I really try
not to yawn when you spend hours
not hitting the clicky thing and agonising
over the fate of imaginary characters.
Artistic Soul-Searching is fine, My Human,
Philosophy's fine,
even Bloody Sociology is fine,
if there's absolutely nothing else on the menu.
But never, ever, forget to feed the cat.

Gyppo

[Tracy Mitchell]

I love this Gyppo. Animal POV poems are both challenging and intriguing. You have done exceedingly well with this.

After reading your preamble, I just had to pull out the cat poem I wrote back in the MWC days:


    Co-Author

Paws padding, I never hear
before she drops in a crouch
on the corner of my desk
then quick-peruses for risk 
or food.  She purrs, slithers 
towar33d my  keyboa44444444
44444444444lllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllccc
cccccccccccccccccccccccccccccc
cccccccccuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
uuuuuuuuuuuudddddddddddd
ddddddddd////////////////
/////////////////////////
/////////////////////////
. . .
 

[Gyppo]

I really enjoyed writing it. I've always thought that cats would make great philosophers.

Interesting thing happened with this poem.  I've had a few people tell me they could see the cat, and they even described it to me.  But there's not a single word of physical description in the poem, just what it thinks and what it does.

=====

I like the co-authoured poem

I remember Fiona complaining that her cat sometimes deleted pages of her work when she fell asleep.  Obviously she'd never learned the wisdom of auto-save, set to just a couple of minutes so you never lose too much.

Gyppo