I like to lie across the stair,
Confident I’m most annoying there,
And when a dog tries to pass by
I growl and give my gimlet eye.
If she or he nonetheless proceeds,
I unleash a double-swat with my paw,
That lands like lightening on their jaw.

The kitchen is what I protect,
Just two steps down, one quick left.
Home to butters, avocados, persimmons and cakes,
The leftovers left over from when she bakes,
The yogurts and lettuces, cheeses and creams,
The stuffs that make up and parade through my dreams.

Lest I be viewed a crude nemesis
By the dogs sharing these (my) premises,
I deed them with all heartfelt cheer,
The onions, pickles, over-hopped beers
And much of the other food box clutter—
The lemons, chutneys and peanut butter.

The rest, they must understand, is mine,
No ifs, no buts and please, no whines.
The kitchen is the Room of Bob,
Guarding it is my primary job.
So here I lie, a stealthy sentry,
Refusing all other quadrupeds entry.

By Bob A. Cat