by Shmuel Ross

Let dogs go beg and scrape and fetch and heel;
No owner's mark on me, I always cried.
I'm on my own. My tail's aloft. I feel
No need to get inane and misty-eyed
For others. That's a form of suicide.
Rejecting your routines for what? A girl
Who doesn't think you're overqualified
For chasing bits of string, just like a churl?
No self-respecting cat would more than hurl
A hairball at the notion, so I said.
But came a scent, enticing more than squirrel--
I leapt. I rolled. I purred. I lost my head.
I'd always thought that I was rational.
Alas! A hint of mint puts me in thrall.

Copyright 1999 Shmuel Ross. All rights reserved.