O WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
(W.H. Pawden)
Sarah Hartwell (with apologies to WH Auden)
"O where are you going?" said purrer to paw-er,
"That cat-box is covered and where kittens learn,
Yonder's the litter which tickles the sitter,
That tray is the pan where the poopies return."
"O do you imagine," said fearball to furball,
"That dinner delays while you play in the grass,
Will purrsistent looking discover the lacking
Your footsteps feel from granite to grass?"
"O what was that noise," said quitter to spitter,
"Was it cat flu or worse that you caught from that sneeze?
Behind you swiftly the beast's claws come softly,
Your bare patch of fur is the ringworm disease."
"Into my cat-tray" said paw-er to purrer,
"Dinner can wait" said furball to fearball,
"It's you looking ill" said spitter to quitter,
As he left them there, as he left them there.
THE DEMISE OF THE RAVEN (THE RAVEN CRIES NEVERMORE)
by Edgar Allen Poe's Pussycat
2007, Sarah Hartwell (with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)
On a midnight unenchanted, when pounding rain by gale was slanted,
I awakened to the ranting of he whom I catch mice for.
Inebriated and unshaven, his voice was hoarse, his tone was craven,
For he was canting at a Raven perched upon his chamber door.
"Corvus corax, rather tasty," and I padded soft but hasty,
In search of sport.
Silently, while he was talking, by shadowed wainscot I was stalking,
Towards Raven's roost atop an awful bust of Pallas I abhor,
While corvus and the poet chattered: berated, ranted, beseeched,
flattered,
From my fell form the house mice scattered as I crossed the
corridor,
My grey shape hid by flick'ring shadow, crossed the rug on muffled
paw
My mind now set on avian gore.
Still the Raven crowed and fluttered, wings clattering like
storm-torn shutters,
The croaking caw just mocked and muttered at my master - "Nevermore."
My master, now insane and haunted, shuddered as the corvid taunted,
Cried out despairing, without warning, mourning for his lost
Lenore.
And I, a liquid shadow lurking, my hunter's instincts never
shirking,
Paused, mid-step, with lifted paw.
Clinging to the gloomy umbra, while the sky rolled distant
thunder,
I moved unnoticed under oaken desks and open drawer,
The poet raved, the raven taunted, while I onto a surface vaulted,
Inched closer to the bird that flaunted itself upon the chamber
door,
Till on the a bookshelf, now much nearer, the Raven in my vision
clearer,
I could complete my hunter's chore.
Tail twitching in anticipation of the demise of that raven,
Even Poe's mind would have savoured that which fate now had in
store.
Their insane discourse the duo kept up; cat the hunter tensed and leapt
up
Took down the feathered fiend with fang and claw
Bone and sinew then was rending, till the damned bird's life was
ended,
Dropped beak and feet uneaten on the floor.
Soon I was a cat well sated, full of the Raven he so hated,
That made him mourn still for his lost Lenore,
In the chamber, feathers scattered, no more Raven now to chatter,
Mocking words from its false safety up above the chamber door.
The bust whose features I so detested, I overtoppled from its recess
While purring "Pallas nevermore."
Fitfully the poet's sleeping, though I fancy I could hear him
weeping,
Into his mind dark mem'ries seeping, mem'ries of his lost Lenore,
In my basket I am thinking, if he would only stop his drinking,
We'd have some peace and quiet once more,
Outside the windows rain ceased falling, the morning chorus commenced
calling,
But one bird would call nevermore.
FLUFFY GEE
by WH Pawden
2007, Sarah Hartwell
Let me tell you a little story
About poor Fluffy G;
They got her from a pet shop
And she had no pedigree.
She'd got bright yellow crossed eyes,
Her nose was flat and small,
Her lower jaw was jutted out
And she had no tail at all.
She was very badly inbred,
She increased a pet shop's wealth,
Her mother bred four times a year
And all kittens had poor health.
She'd been bought by Mrs Watson,
Who cured her of her fleas,
But no amount of Kit-E-Kat
Could cure genetic disease.
She dreamed she was a Persian,
That her legs were straight, not bent,
That she had a silky plumy coat
That rippled as she went.
And all the judges loved her
At the "National" and "Supreme",
Awarded cups and rosettes,
But alas, 'twas just a dream.
For sure her owner loved her,
But her bones were bowed and bent
And local children laughed at her
When on her walks she went.
Then Fluffy G stopped eating
And began to feel unwell,
Her nose began to dribble
And her breath began to smell.
She was packed into a basket
Transported to the vet
He looked poor Fluffy over,
And dolefully he said:
"There's lumps within her belly,
And a tumour in her neck,
And even without cancer,
This cat's a walking wreck;
She's got some bad mutations,
Hence all the deformed bones;
That's why her tail is absent
And why her mouth won't close.
Was she weaned too early?
Was she the litter's runt?
A dreadful start to early life
Would cause her to be stunted."
He lay Fluffy on the table,
And he gave the fatal dose,
No more dreams for Fluffy
Of prizes won at shows.
Her owner donated Fluffy
To the school of anatomy
Where her twisted bones are mounted
For the student vets to see.
FERAL CATS (I WANDERED LONELY AS A STRAY)
By William Wordsworth's Stray
2007, Sarah Hartwell (with apologies to William Wordsworth)
I wandered lonely as a stray
That haunts the night in quiet stealth,
And hides in hedges by the day,
From humans who would harm my health;
Beside the bins, beneath the stair,
I'm the feral shadow lurking there.
Precarious the life I eke,
The unseen raider of your scraps,
While owners rub the silken cheek,
Of pampered cats upon their laps,
While idle felines doze and thrive,
I am more vital, more alive.
The one who rhymes of flowers bright
That dance uncaring in the breeze,
If he would gaze into the night,
Might write of feral cats like me -
And how I dance bright-eyed and sing,
And woo the lady-cats in spring!
Who cares for golden daffodils?
They are no good to such as I,
A good plump mouse my belly fills,
And oestrus queans will catch my eye -
My feral heart with pleasure fills,
For cats care not for daffodils!
THE TIME HAS COME, THE PERSIAN SAID
2010, Sarah Hartwell
The Persian and the Siamese
Came walking through the door
They frisked upon the furniture
And rolled upon the floor
If only every cat had this,
They waved a velvet paw.
"The time has come," the Persian said,
"To talk of many things:
Of birds, and mice, and ping-pong balls -
Of litter-trays, and strings,
And why the hob is boiling hot,
And whether cats have wings."
"Cats with wings," the Persian said,
"Such things you may have heard,
They'd swoop on the unwary mouse,
They'd chase the flying bird."
Inscrutable, the Siamese,
Just closed his eyes and purred.
The Siamese thought for a while,
And sat in calm repose,
"Cats with wings, ridiculous!"
And then began to dose,
The Persian fluffed out all his fur
And cuffed him on the nose.
"Yes cats with wings," the Persian quoth,
"Have several times been bred,"
The Siamese retorted then,
"My friend - your wits have fled!"
The Persian fluffed his fur again
And cuffed him on the head.
"Feathered wings or furry wings?"
Then asked the Siamese,
"And do the cats sleep on the hearth,
Or do they roost in trees?
And must they flap or can they glide
Like kites upon the breeze?"
The Persian and the Siamese,
At this exchange of views,
Rested upon the sunny floor,
The better there to muse,
But no conclusion could they reach,
Before they were a-snooze!
OUR FAVOURITE THINGS (CAT FANCIER STYLE)
2008, Sarah Hartwell
Rosettes on cages and ribbons on kittens
Snowshoes and Birmans and others with mittens
Pedigree pussies, the glamour they bring,
These are a few of our favorite things.
Cream coloured tabbies or Foreigns that yodel,
Rexs and Laperms with fur curled like poodles
Maine Coons all mellow, Siameses that "sing"
These are a few of our favorite things.
Abys in ticking and Bengals all spotty,
A few naughty torties to drive judges potty,
Silver chinchillas with kohl black eye-rims,
These are a few of our favorite things,
All the old breeds, all the new ones,
When you're feeling sad,
Just simply remember your favorite things,
And then you won't feel so bad.
(If I included every breed by name of description the song would be endless, so feel free to substitute your breed)