I remember Morris. He
Was finicky on our TV
When I was little. He survives
In memory because 9Lives
(The only brand he deigned to eat)
Retrieved him from a shelter. Sweet.
I think of Morris now and then
And most particularly when
My own cat claims I’m starving her
And shows me where her dinners* were
Just minutes prior. *Yes, that’s right,
dinners, plural, every night.
So far from finicky is she
I sometimes turn in time to see
Her noshing nachos from my dish,
Or rice, or bits of breaded fish.
I could go on, but that meow
Means someone’s running short of chow.
“I’m coming, mistress!” I’d refuse,
But what if, next, it’s me she chews?
I’d best not take the chance, in case
I sleep, then wake without a face.
I love my cat, and she loves me
(Perhaps with sausages and tea).


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