To go outside, and there perchance to stay
Or to remain within: that is
the question:
Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer
The cuffs and
buffets of inclement weather
That Nature rains on those who roam
abroad,
Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet,
And so by dozing melt the
solid hours
That clog the clock's bright gears with sullen time
And
stall the dinner bell. To sit, to stare
Outdoors, and by a stare to seem
to state
A wish to venture forth without delay,
Then when the portal's
opened up, to stand
As if transfixed by doubt. To prowl; to sleep;
To
choose not knowing when we may once more
Our re-admittance gain: aye,
there's the hairball;
For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob,
Or work
a lock or slip a window-catch,
And going out and coming in were made
As
simple as the breaking of a bowl,
What cat would bear the household's
petty plagues,
The cook's well-practiced kicks, the butler's broom,
The
infant's careless pokes, the tickled ears,
The trampled tail, and all the
daily shocks
That fur is heir to, when, of his own free will,
He might
his exodus or entrance make
With a mere mitten? Who would spaniels
fear,
Or strays trespassing from a neighbor's yard,
But that the dread
of our unheeded cries
And scratches at a barricaded door
No claw can
open up, dispels our nerve
And makes us rather bear our humans'
faults
Than run away to unguessed miseries?
Thus caution doth make
house cats of us all;
And thus the bristling hair of resolution
Is
softened up with the pale brush of thought,
And since our choices hinge on
weighty things,
We pause upon the threshold of decision.
-shakespaw
[Mother Shiptons Prophecy] [Poetry]
[Guest-Sign] [Guest-View] [Email]