By William Shakespeare's Cat
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
readmittance 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
weft-practiced kicks, the butter'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.
Received in email, author unkown
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