Whiskers, my cat, is a serious mouser,
a sleek and sinuous
creep-through-the-houser.
A silent stalker.
A steadfast croucher
BUT--
Whiskers is a most changeable cat.
He's a scatterbrained
chaser and batter,
a clownish pouncer
and fierce attacker
of strings
and spools
and sashes
and beans,
and other assorted
temptingly hit-able
swishing and rustling
clickety, tickating
swinging or rolling
things.
The world's champion napper,
that's Whiskers,
my cat.
A do-nothing
lazy.
So limp.
And so
dozy.
Who
just chooses--
to snooze.
Anywhere.
On a cushion.
Or a desk.
In a chest.
Or a chair.
All the day.
BUT--
During the night he's a fire-eyed prowler.
A bristle-haired hisser.
A fighter.
A growler--
is Whiskers,
my changeable cat.
A dandy and preener,
he's also that.
A fur-licking, fur-slicking, finicky cleaner.
A glistening prince,
so haughty and vain.
AND--
a shivering scrap
of scraggly-haired misery,
slinking home dripping wet from the rain.
He's a peeker and poker.
A padded-paw pryer.
A sneaky, snoopy, private-eye spyer.
A squeezer through doors.
An explorer
of drawers,
and boxes,
and cupboards,
and sacks
who believes that all cracks
are meant
just for him
to slip in.
Whiskers, my cat,
is an acrobat.
A rubbery tumbler,
a lithe tightrope walker.
A balancing wonder
who can perch where he pleases.
A spike-footed climber
who streaks straight up trees, or
a leaper as daring as any trapezer.
I never know
just what to expect
or which character Whiskers, my cat,
will be next--
chaser,
prowler,
fighter,
growler,
mouser,
napper,
or acrobat.
OR--
A soft rub of fur round my legs,
A warm cozy curl in my lap.
A warm hum of fur snuggled near me in bed.
A comforting purr
of friendly fur--
most especially that
is Whiskers, my cat.
...THE END...
