radfrac_archive | requiesCat: mao the left shoulder cat

Born in obscurity among feral cats in the wilds of Sooke, he rose to become the largest, proudest, and most princess-y cat you were ever likely to meet. A Maine Coon, as you may know, is a Whole Other Animal. He knew me only as Movable Cushion. I was lucky to bear the name.

My ex-co-conspirator fought bitterly against putting him to sleep, but in the end knew it wasn't fair to let him go on. It is the person's job to take care of the cat. That is what you do, even when it's the last thing you want to do.

Here is a poem I wrote with him in it, a long time ago.

Story of Our House

We will have light in the morning
curtains of dust twisting as they fall
the unripe sun
the wakeful noise of birds
the cold feet of the cat
crossing the linoleum floor

We will have light in the afternoon
light burred in the drowsy cat's fur
light on the oak table, on the bread brown as oak
on the melting butter, on the grapes and cherries
lit up like planets made of glass

Our house will always have chocolate and halvah and tea
we will contemplate the wind as it explodes the dandilions
and drink salt out of the air
the cat will jump into the fireplace
and strut out with dirty paws

And twilight
the air in the house will turn smoke-blue
like glass over a flame
the cat will look up, crossing through the dry grass in the yard
his gold-leaf eyes suddenly illuminated

We will have darkness in our house
and the smell of evening
last cups of tea in the arch of the door
bare feet nesting in the carpet

Panes of darkness to enclose us into our beds
into the dark rooms of our sleeping minds
and the cat will move restlessly between sleep at your feet
and stalking the night highway
traced out by stars like distance signs
the marks of his paws soft and sooty
disrupting and rearranging the sky