Zoe the Poet

My human is something else. First she thinks she’s a writer, now she thinks she’s a painter. I think she’s going through a mid-life crisis.

Listen to this. I overheard her telling someone how she has taken up her old “hobby” again. Really? She painted three, maybe four, paintings about ten years ago and she calls that a hobby? If a cat could shrug, I would. I can’t shrug, really. But I can yawn.

I’m actually delighted that she has taken up this activity. See, she set up this long table. In fact, she set up two tables, and on one of them was a box. She should know that a box is irresistible to a cat. I mean, a cat is drawn to a box like a moth to a flame, like a flea to a dog, like a woman to a sensitive man, like—well, you get my drift.

So. I spy this box and I want in! Do I care that there is stuff in it? Of course not! It’s a box and I’m a cat. I immediately wander around the table top, checking out the box from every angle. I peek over the top and spy paper in the box. It’s flat paper, nothing I can snuggle down into, and not a pile I can put my paw to and knock on the floor like the piles of papers I always find on that long table in front of the couch. That’s a really fun game I play with my human. I knock them down, Emily fetches them and puts them back on the table. I wait ‘til she leaves the room and I knock the pile down again. She gets ticked off, but does she stop making those piles? No! Foolish human.

But back to my story. I want the paper out so I can get in. First I chew on the corners a little, then I pick the papers up in my mouth and with a twist of my head, drop them on the floor. And into the empty box I go. So easy. Actually, that was not enough of a challenge. Tomorrow I have a plan to get into the box on the other table. That box is narrower and deeper . . . exactly the kind a feline loves to get into and curl up in, you know? It has all these blobs of color in it, though. Don’t know what they are, but you can bet I will investigate. I’ll be sure to let you know what I find out.

About this time, you might be wondering why I titled this story as I did. I’ll tell you now. I figure it this way: If my human is a painter, then I’m a poet. So let’s see what I can come up with, just off the top of my head.

“Zoe the feline checking in,
To bring you a laugh, a tear, or a grin.
The stories I give you, they come from within.
Except when they come from without.”

Zoe (currently residing at Emily’s home HERE)

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