You Talk to Me

 You Talk to Me

But I don’t understand.

I’ve given you a cuddle –

which you didn’t want for long.

I’ve fed you – twice already

today, and you ate well, so

that doesn’t seem to be

the problem. You’ve got 

your cat grass and you’ve had

your daily Dental Treat. 

I even got in a quick brush 

of your fine, floaty fur, before 

you walked out from under.

We had a spell on my bed

at your strident insistence.

I thought I’d got it right

when you nestled half an hour

between my legs – but no, that

palled too. Did you even purr?

Before that we had a play

with one of your dangly toys.

I half-hid it behind the leg 

of a chair, so you could stalk it 

and creep up and pounce. But

once you’d caught it – enough.

Dear little thing, you are not

the master of body language

your predecessor was, nor

do you seem to possess

her telepathic genius. She

seldom miaowed, hadn’t been

socialised young with humans,

but she learnt to make her point.

You, on the other hand,

have a very loud miaow and

you clearly expect it to do

everything. (Am I just dumb?)

Ah no, there it is: the scratching

at the kitty litter to cover what

you’ve dropped at last, to your

great relief. I should know 

by now, those regular complaints

around this time indicate

discomfort of the bowels.

I don’t know what you expect

me to do about it. I know you think 

I’m your servant, and I do my best, 

but some things, my dear pampered 

princess, you must manage yourself.

 

Prompt 21 from Poetic Asides for April 2021 is a '— me' poem, making that (whatever it is) the title.

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United via Writers' Pantry #70, on 16 May  – by which time Poppi-cat and I have progressed to much greater understanding, trust and affection. Which perhaps means she now has me better trained.