The Years of the Cat

Every year is The Year of the Cat
sleep all day, snack, snack, snack...

Dawn begins with a weight on my hip, with a claw that clings if I dare to turn or to tip.

A meow at my door when I'm trying to write: 'Let me in! I'm lonely! What are you doing? I don't like liver's bite!'

Come evening she simply won't have Joyce's book, and Dickens' heavier works get that 'It's them or me' look.

Now I'm not a cat person as it goes, per se, nor a dog lover could I be called, by the way.


But this cat on my hip at dawn, dusk and doors
has a very firm grip, with four very firm paws

So I say once again because that's where I'm at:
every year is The Year of the Cat.