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On Cats
What I don't understand about a cat Is how it gets away with being rude and all that While a husband of similar comportment Gets the fish-eye and a long list of wifely exhortment. Cats are allowed to raise hob like sinking their claws into living room couches, While husbands are rebuked for far less serious debauches -i.e., pouring an extra bourbon on the rocks Or forgettng to pick up their dirty socks. A husband has to mind his Q's and P's, While his wife's calico, Persian or Siamese Can go off on any sin-filled adventure And suffer not as jot by way of censure. A cat, no matter how it is disgraced, Will always end up hugged and kissy-faced. Gerry GoldsteinThe spirit of the cat - in verse
"He will kill mice, and he will be kind to babies when he is in the house, just as long as they do not pull his tail too hard. But when he has done that, and between times, and when the moon gets up and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone." From The Cat that Walked by Himself by Rudyard Kipling'Pussy can sit by the fire and sing'
Pussy can sit by the fire and sing, Pussy can climb a tree Or play with a silly old cork and string To 'muse herself, not me. But I like Binkie my dog, because He knows how to behave; So, Binkie's the same as the First Friend was, And I am the Man in the Cave! Pussy will play Man Friday till It's time to wet her paw and make her walk on the window-sill (For the footprint Crusoe saw); Then she fluffles her tail and mews, And scratches and won't attend But Binkie will play whatever I choose, And he is my true First Friend! Pussy will rub my knees with her head Pretending she loves me hard; But the very minute I go to my bed Pussy runs out in the yard, And there she stays till the morning-light; So I know it is only pretend And he is my Firstest Friend. Rudyard Kipling (This poem followed the story 'The Cat that Walked by Himself.'Cats
Cats no less liquid than their shadows Offer no angles to the wind They slip, diminished, neat through loopholes Less than themselves; will not be pinned To rules or routes for journeys; counter Attack with non-resistance; twist Enticing through the curving fingers And leave an angered empty fist. They wait obsequious as darkness Quick to retire, quick to return; Admit no aim or ethics; flatter With reservations; will not learn To answer to their names; are seldom Truly owned till shot or skinned. Cats no less liquid than their shadows Offer no angles to the wind. A.S.J.TessimondCat on the mat
The fat cat on the mat may seem to dream of nice mice that suffice for him, or cream: but he is free maybe walks in thought unbowed, proud, where loud roared and fought his kin, lean and slim, or deep in den in the East feasted on beasts and tender men The giant lion with iron claw in paw, and ruthless tooth in gory jaw; the pard dark-stained fleet upon feet that oft soft from aloft leaps on his meat. Where words loom in gloom far now they be fierce and free and tamed is he; but fat cat on the mat kept as pet he does not forget. J.R.R. TolkienTo old Possum
Macavity Macavity There's nobody like Macavity - Mr Eliot said that. He didn' t know my cat. Mine is the most Rumbustious rampagious Law-breaking outrageous Combustious comtumacious Cat. The most cacophanous caterwauling Back-chatterous stone-walling Preposterous out-bawling Cat. And her name is Sirikit, formally; But we'll call her Pussy, Or Octopussy Or Cattypus Or Ediepus, Or Sillykit, normally. She's never to be found either At the scene of what's been done. But when we' ve seen What's been done We know Who done it - Oh yes - That punctilious Supercilious Don't-touch-me-I' m-thinking I'll-stare-you-out-unblinking Elegant Hellcat That permanent termagant Siamese Sirikit That' s who Did it. Moira RishCats Dream
Cats dream of flying, and of each other. Though they are light sleepers, their dreams have A complexity, and may have recurrent themes. Cats' dreams are like collages, but are not surreal. They have special effects, like slow motion, sophisticated nuances in lighting, and reverberant sound. Cats' dreams can be multilingual, poetic, unclassifiable. Cats dream with their whole bodies and have a hundred words for "dream." A hundred words, and counting. AnonymousThe Cat of Cats
I am the cat of cats, I am The everlasting cat! Cunning and old, and sleek as jam, The everlasting cat! I hunt the vermin in the night, The everlasting cat! For I see best without the light, The everlasting cat! AnonymousA Plea for a Cat
Would you care for me, as I care for my cat? Oh, I know she is treacherous and her thoughts go no higher Than mice and milk and a place by my fir; She is getting old and fat. But when I sit alone in my evening chair, I stroke her fur I like to know she is there and to hear her purr. Of course, you could not care for me Like that! I can not purr as flatteringly as a cat. AnonymousThis Old Cat
I'm getting on in years, My coat is turning grey. My eyes have lost their luster, my hearing's just okay. I spend my whole day dreaming of conquests in my past, lying near a sunny window. Waiting for its warm repast. I remember our first visit, I was coming to you free, hoping you would take me in and keep me company. I wasn't young or handsome, two years I'd roamed the street. There were scars upon my face, I hobbled on my feet. I could sense your disappointment as I left my prison cage. Oh , I hoped you would accept me and look beyond my age. you took me out of pity, I accepted without shame. Then you grew to love me, and I admit the same. I have shared with you your laughter, You have wet my fur with tears. We've come to know each other Throughout these many years. Just one more hug this morning Before you drive away, And know I'll think about you Throughout your busy day. The time we've left together Is a treasured time at that. My heart is yours forever. I promise . . . This Old Cat. Anonymous a poem fromOld Possum's Book Of Practical Cats
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter, It isn't just one of your holiday games; You may think at first I'm mad as a hatter When I tell you a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES. First of all, there's the name that the family use daily, Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James, Such as Victor or Jonathan, George, Bill Bailey -- All of them sensible everyday names. There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter, Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames; Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter -- But all of them sensible everyday names. But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular, A name that's peculiar, and more dignified, Else how can he keep his tail perpendicular, Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride? Of names of this kind I can give you a quorum, Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo or Coricopat Such as Bambalurina or else Jellylorum -- Names that never belong to more than one cat. But above and beyond there's still one name left over, And that is the name that you will not guess; The name no human research can discover -- But the CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess. When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same. His mind is engaged in rapt contemplation Of the thought, Of the thought, Of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular name. T. S. Eliot, "The Naming of Cats"The End of the Raven
On a night quite unenchanting, When the rain was downward slanting, I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for. Tipsy and a bit unshaven, In a tone I found quite craven, Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door. "Raven's very tasty," thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor, "There is nothing I like more" Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore. While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered, Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor; For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and wierd decor - Bric-a-brac and junk galore. Still the Raven never fluttered, Standing stock-still as he uttered, In a voice that shrieked and sputtered his two cents' worth - "Nevermore." While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, Oh, so silently I crept up, Then I crouched and quickly lept up, pouncing on the feathered bore. Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore - Only this and not much more. "Oooo!" my pickled poet cried out, "Pussycat, it's time I dried out! Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before; How I've wallowed in self-pity, While my gallant, valiant kitty Put and end to that damned ditty" - then I heard him start to snore. Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor, Jumped - and smashed it on the floor. Edgar Allen PoeThe Cat
Within that porch, across the way, I see two naked eyes this night; Two eyes that neither shut nor blink, Searching my face with a green light. But cats to me are strange, so strange - I cannot sleep if one is near; And though I'm sure I see those eyes, I'm not so sure a body's there! W. H. Davies fromThe Kitten and The Falling Leaves
... See the Kitten on the Wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves--one--two--and three, From the lofty Elder-tree! Through the calm and frosty air, Of this morning bright and fair... --But the Kitten, how she starts; Crouches, stretches, paws, & darts! First at one, and then its fellow, Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now--now one--Now they stop and there are none; What intenseness of desire, In her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap half way, Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then, Has it in her power again: Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian Conjuror; Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart ... William Wordsworth (1770-1850)The Places Cats Prefer
The places cats prefer Are those where they can purr On a window ledge Or a garden hedge Anywhere they can be demure. There is no place not theirs Be it on the table or under the stairs But they will not abide No place to hide From other cats putting on airs. A cat will be circumspect In deciding which place to select But once settled there It will no longer care And will nap-instead of reflect. AnonymousReflections On A Cat
The places cats prefer Are those where they can purr On a window ledge Or a garden hedge Anywhere they can be demure. There is no place not theirs Be it on the table or under the stairs But they will not abide No place to hide From other cats putting on airs. A cat will be circumspect In deciding which place to select But once settled there It will no longer care And will nap - instead of reflect. AnonymousCats
Cats sleep, anywhere, Any table, any chair Top of piano, window-ledge, In the middle, on the edge, Open drawer, empty shoe, Anybody's lap will do, Fitted in a cardboard box, In the cupboard, with your frocks- Anywhere! They don't care! Cats sleep anywhere. Elanor FarjeonA Cat's Christmas
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse 'Cuz the cat had pounced on him and tore him apart - Ate his mousey intestimes and chewed up his heart. Kitty thought he heard sleighbells, which made him take pause- He stopped daintily licking the blood from his claws. "Must be Santa," thought kitty (that quite clever cat) 'Cuz nobody else climbs down the chimney like that. Indeed it was ol' Santa, so jolly and fat With a huge load of presents and all for the cat "Wow, the best Christmas ever!" Kitty thought with a purr, Then he coughed up a hairball and shed some more fur. AnonymousWhy Own a Cat?
There's a danger you know. You can't own just one, for the craving will grow. There's no doubt they're addictive, wherein lies the danger While living with lots, you'll grow poorer and stranger One cat is not trouble, and two are so funny, The third one is easy, the fourth one's a honey The fifth is delightful, the sixth ones's a breeze. You find you can live with a houseful, with ease. So how 'bout another? Would you really dare? They're really quite easy, but Oh Lord, the hair! With cats on the sofa and cats on the bed, And crates in the kitchen, its no bother, you said. They're really no trouble, their manners are great. What's just one more cat and one more little crate? The sofa is hairy, the windows are crusty. The floor is all footprints, the furniture's dusty. The housekeeping suffers, but what do you care? Who minds a few noseprints and a little more hair? So let's keep a kitten, you can always find room. And a little more time for the dust cloth and broom. There's hardly a limit to the cats you can add the thought of a cutback, sure makes you feel sad. Each one is special, so useful, so funny, The food bill grows larger, you owe the vet money. Your folks never visit, few friends come to stay, Except other cat folks, who live the same way. Your lawn has now died and your shrubs are dead, too. Your weekends are busy, you're off with your crew. There's cat food and vitamins, grooming and shots And entries and travel and motels, which cost lots. Is it worth it you wonder? Are you caught in a trap? Then that favorite comes up and climbs in your lap. His look says you're special and you know that you will Keep all of the kittens in spite of the bill. Some just for showing and some just to breed And some just for loving, they all fill a need. Late evening is awful, you scream and you shout At the cats on the sofa, who refuse to get up. The cats and the cat shows, the travel, the thrills The work and the worry, the pressure, the bills. The Whole thing seems worth it, the cats are your life. They're charming and funny and offset the strife. Your lifestyle has changed, things just won't be the same. Yes, those cats are addictive and so's the cat game! AnonymousThe Housecat's Grave
I've changed my ways a little, I can no longer roam with you in the evenings along the shore, except in a kind of dream, and you, if you dream a little you see me there. So leave a while the paw marks on the front door, Where I used to scratch to come in or go out, and you'd soon answer, leave on the kitchen floor the marks of my drinking pan. I cannot lie by your fire all evening On the warm stone, nor yet at the foot of your bed no, all the night through,I lie alone. But your kind thought has laid me less than 6 feet outside your window, where firelight so often plays, and where you sit to read, and, I fear, often grieving for me-- every night your lamplight lies on my place. You, Man and Woman, live so long, it is hard to think of you ever dying! A little cat would get tired, living so long. I hope that when you are lying under the ground like me, your lives will appear as good and joyful as mine. No, dears, that's too much hope... you have not been as well cared for as I have been, and never knew the passionate, undivided fidelities I knew. Your minds are perhaps too active, too many sided, but to me you were true. You were never Masters, but Friends. I was your Friend. Deep love endures to the end and long past the end... If this is my end, I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours. Anonymous