How Great is a Kitty

In memory of Rumi Rose…a great kitty.

You were specially chosen
to come into our hearts,
a lightning-quick
energy of stops and starts.
Chasing unseen enemies
that propelled you along berms,
we delighted in your joy
and how your tininess squirmed.
So many smiles you brought
to our faces, invading
deeply into all of our spaces.

But soon it was apparent
that something was amiss,
issues of health told us
we can’t be remiss.
Visits to vets left them
scratching their heads,
what was this strange
malady that you did have?
They gave up and advised
that you’d soon be dead.
But your mother held
firm against a strong
tide and lifted you in light
with unwavering decide;
she kept her faith and
ignored the misguide.
She took you to doctors
who were willing to fight
and try what they could
to make your life right.

There were some close
calls when we thought
you were going but you
rebounded ever stronger
with vigor and glowing.
A lifelong taking of a
certain medicine kept
you among the living
with a steady purring.
Your countenance was pure
and you didn’t give a flip
for time wasted grooming,
aside from a cursory lick.

You bossed us and teased
and loved us unwavering
and surprised me especially
by curling up on my knees.
We knew you felt good when
you writhed on your back
on the warm, driveway pave-
ment near your favorite pack.
Mahan was your mother
but Mo was your man,
spending endless hours
with you out in the sun.

So many years passed
and you surprised us all
how you wanted to stay
with more days to play.
But finally we could see
that you were faltering,
your energy draining.
It soon became clear that
you couldn’t spring back,
and in no time at all
things turned pitch black.
Our hearts were broken
as your soul left your body,
but it no longer served you,
could no longer embody.
So now there are memories
that we have of you to share,
laughs at your shenanigans,
and your touchy, white paws.

Bjorn hosts us today at dVerse Poets for Open Link Night.  Please join us as we link up one poem of our choice to share.

Discarded Paper

shopping done
we’re back home
the cat nests
in a pile of discarded paper

My small stone submitted to the Mindful Writing Challenge at Writing Our Way Home:

How I Sleep With My Cat

Sita in her catnip patch.

I’m sharing a bit of fun today.  I tackled writing about the very challenging art of sleeping (mostly not) with my cat, Sita.

shoo her
off my
side of the bed
turn off
light and
then address
the dark…
“excuse me
please, you’re
standing on
the quilt”, while
giving it a tug
settle in,
pulling up
the covers..
sigh deeply,
enjoying the
cool comfort
of the sheets
and the cradling
support of my
smell fish breath
and feel a rough
tongue lick my nose
hear loud, adoration-
filled purring
while kitty feet
march around
my head and
over my pillow,
jostling my head
as eyes adjust
to darkened room,
see cat
peering intently
into my face
make the mistake
of letting the cat
think I’m trying to
engage with her
quickly close eyes
feel a soft paw
on my eyelids
trying to coax
them open
pat the space
behind my
bended knees
and invite cat
to lay down
and go to sleep
feel cat pounce,
thinking it’s a game
feel tension rising
and a hot flash
throw off covers,
scaring cat
perching on
the far side of the
bed, cat acts
annoyed and
tries to ignore me…
ears give her away
cool down,
pull covers back up
and finally drift off
suddenly awaken
to more marching,
loud purring and
fish breath
muttering under
my breath, get up
and grab wide-awake cat
put her out
close door

Hedgewitch (Joy Ann Jones) plays hostess at dVerse Poets’ pub tonight:


Here are photos of my cat, Sita.  She is 13 years old now and in excellent health.  My daughter adopted her when she was an infant kitty.  She was very happy living with us in a small apartment that had an enclosed courtyard around it.  We would let her out to play in the courtyard where she would occasionally capture a lizard that was one of her favorite tasty morsels.  If we ever happened to glance out there and see her with the tell-tale “grimace” that alerted us to the fact that she had captured one in her mouth, we would run out there and make her let it go.  She hated that and would run from us.  We couldn’t bear the fact that she was killing the lizards–she could care less.  After all she’s a cat–what were we thinking?!

My daughter made the huge mistake of thinking Sita needed a playmate and adopted a male kitten she named Rumi, after the Sufi poet.  Sita thought this was a horrible idea and never would warm up to her new “brother”.  It was a disaster.  Sita had to deal with him in “her space” for several years before my daughter moved away and decided that to take two cats who hated each other would not be the greatest idea.  So we gladly took her in and she has been happily living with Tom and me for several years now.  She is so much happier being an “only kitty”!

She’s very affectionate and loves to get into my lap for a snooze or a cuddle.  Her “Dad” gives her a good brushing everyday which she loves.  And will wait patiently for him outside his bathroom door to finish with his shower in the mornings for him to administer the anticipated brushing.

She has a little stool that she gets on throughout the day and night to check out the front of the house.  Usually that’s where she’ll spot an intruding cat and if they approach too closely to her window seat–all hell will break loose with full-fledged puffed up, bristled fur, accompanied by loud caterwauling!  Thank you, Sita, for alarming the household of the danger lurking outside!

She has a “paper patch” and a catnip patch that she loves to roll around in and play.  The paper patch consists of discarded, multi-colored tissue paper (the kind that comes in a gift package).  She loves to lie in it and pretend there are “things” hiding within its “crinkly” crevices and attack them.  She is very good at “disemboweling” these imagined tissue critters.  Her catnip patch is right next to her paper patch.  This is where she will receive her pinch of “nip” and scratch at it vigorously before flipping on her back while she then lazily lolls in her “purple haze” of bliss.

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