Feline Blues (Day 17, 2016)

Day 17, and National Poetry Writing Month rolls along.

Feline Blues

What’s the worst thing about being a cat?
You may be tempted to say
it’s the food, which is either
dry and hard, or moist and mushy
and made of meat scraps regardless, or
maybe you think shitting in a
box and then covering it
with chunks of clay is humiliating (and
you aren’t wrong about that) but after
years of careful observation of my own
domestic feline I have determined that the 
single greatest struggle in the
otherwise relaxed cat world is finding
a way to clean your face.  You’re not
going near a bathtub and your
tongue can’t reach 98% of 
your head, so unless your humans are
the unfortunate kind who buy wipes
to leave you smelling chemical fresh
you’re stuck trying to turn
random items into makeshift wash
cloths, usually by licking said 
objects’ surfaces and then pushing
your face across them several times.  My
own cat does this most frequently to the 
hands of our guests, who hopefully
do not pause to consider that his tongue
doubles as toilet paper, but sometimes
he climbs on my chest
and uses my goatee to scour his
forehead, presumably removing loose fur
and dead skin in the process, purring all
the while to disguise his self-serving 
actions as love.  In the cold light 
of day his manipulation is obvious but as
it happens, when his eyes close and his 
soft fur crosses my cheek, I am fooled
every time.
  

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About semiblind

Bringing you stark existentialism since 1981.
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