I would never own a cat. Yes, 'tis true, I am allergic to them. They make me sneeze. My eyes get red. Sensing that, they weave between my legs, they leap into my lap spreading dander like a sandstorm on Arrakis.
But those are not the reasons
I would never own a cat.
Rather, it is jealousy.
I must admit to that.
Their splendid isolation. Napping in the sun. They wake and yawn and stretch, completely self-contained and self-satisfied. Fully aware they were once gods in Egypt. "And why not?" their haughty glances say.
You see, I simply cannot imagine
That cats feel stressed at all.
If they do they mask it well,
While strolling down the hall.
If the sun has been so bold as to move . . an incredible intrusion. The cat may deign to find another pool of sunlight to further charge its purr. A lick, a stretch, it curls up . . . serenity made flesh.
We complicated humans
Make pretzels of our minds
Trying to achieve
That quietude and peace
That cats appear to simply catch
Each time they fall asleep.
So I plainly could not have one.
It would drive me close to mad,
To have a clawed reminder
That skulks about the house,
Transcendent as the Buddha,
With no more effort than a louse!
.
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