I’m a metrosexual cat
Whose many admirers notice that
My nails are clipped,
I’m microchipped,
And my hirsute neck is set
With a leather collar in violet.
My thick ginger coat blindly shines
With the stolen butters I’ve made mine;
Double-0 Seven, Sean Connery,
That’s what you’ll think when you see me.
As an accomplished entrepreneur
Who knows when to swat and when to purr
I live a life of politesse,
Except when I make a big fat mess.
Say, by way of recent example,
The shabby feral tabby tramples
Through the yard and leaps on the fence,
How can I not, in my defense,
Get proprietarily incensed?
I rattle the shades, bat the window,
With menacing gestures I demand he go.
He’s outside and I am in,
But when he dashes I follow him,
Soaring onto the kitchen counter,
Sending the dog bowl crashing downward,
Hitting a gallon of cranberry juice
Which pours to the floor staining it puce,
Mixing nicely with the ceramic shards—
That bowl, turns out, hit really hard.
When she runs in to see what’s the matter
Given the commotion and cacophonous clatter,
I sit politely and give her my stare
Which translates genteelly to: Don’t go there.
I know deep down I’m one of her faves
And she knows I’ll bite if she misbehaves.
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